


Some things were meant to be wild.

by CJaneway



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Bloodplay, Cannon Divergence, Crossdressing, King Thorin, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Sassy Bilbo Baggins, The children of Morgoth, Thorin Is an Idiot, inspired by randomplotbunny, vampire!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJaneway/pseuds/CJaneway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peace was a lie. So were the Hobbits. Such kindly, merry, folk shouldn't rightfully exist. Gandalf had many questions, even before the adventure, and now they were all being answered.</p><p>----</p><p>Or the one where the author gets inspired by another fan-fiction that has vampiric Hobbits in it. Take your pick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes a choice is made before it is made

**Author's Note:**

> Some things were meant to be wild  
> Inspired by Just a Little Bite by randomplotbunny on fanfiction.net https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10048228/2/Just-a-Little-Bite  
> All starred quotes are from the movies.

 

\----------

**_Thud…_ **

The Shire was a calm, colorful, yet slow place of living. Spirited little creatures of merriment, food and drink populated the hills and mounds turned beautiful houses that littered the valley. Both new settlers, which there were very few of, and transient visitors, extolled the virtues of living the calm secluded life alongside the Hobbits.

**_Thud…_ **

No one, not even the elves, knew how the Shire had come to be, and if you asked a Hobbit they would tell anyone who asked that they had always been there. Scholars had no recorded history of the place, and the settlement of Brie never had any trouble with them. The Hobbits were nice, kindly folk. There were never any murders in the Shire.

**_Thud…_ **

Gandalf knew something was afoot. The Hobbits hid great potential, something he had sought to reveal, if only to sate the innate curiosity that came with being of the Maiar. The Valar had made the dwarves, the elves, and the menfolk, yet the Hobbits, the shortest, kindest, most secluded of them all, were a mystery. Crops failed in small settlements like the Shire, beasts attacked, stray bands of goblins and orcs sometimes struck, that was the life of a small settlement. Not the Shire though, never the Shire, something kept external forces at bay, and through his endless visits Gandalf had not discovered anything pointing towards an answer.

**_Thud…_ **

Sometimes a Hobbit would die. It was a grand affair when Hobbits lost their own. Music, merriment, food, drink, and for every death a new face made an appearance, Gandalf noted. The wizard never asked why the new, young, face resembled the departed so much. He’d seen this happen three times. At the death of Balbo Baggins, the sweet, fresh face of Bilbo had appeared, not grieving for his grandfather, but making merriment with the rest of his family. They were so alike, the townsfolk said, that if they hadn’t been born generations apart they could have been twins. Gandalf studied the face of Bilbo and saw the lines that Balbo had garnered through a long life start their web across the fresh face. It had been a long time since Gandalf had visited, perhaps, he thought, he should drop by more often.

**_Thud…_ **

They were sneaky, Hobbits, certain things were done, certain rituals, which were completely different from any race. Mourning seemed to hold no place in the mindset of a Hobbit, there was only joy and merriment. Gandalf had tried, through many, many years, to glimpse at what made up the Shire, and why so few Hobbits moved beyond its borders for longer periods of time. Most of the other inhabitants of Arda were not even aware of the existence of the little green patch of peace that was the Shire. Most Hobbits were wary of outsiders, of noise, of tricks not their own. Gandalf and his fireworks were not received well by many, but one Bilbo Baggins, the mirror of Balbo, had smiled kindly, offered some pipe-weed of the finest sort, and asked for more.

**_Thud…_ **

When Fili and Kili first met Bilbo Baggins they were sure they had come to the wrong house when he answered the door. A pretty little furry footed gentleman could not be the one Gandalf wanted to bring on their quest. But they tried their best anyway. “Fili and Kili, at your service”* they had said, as proper dwarves were raised to do. The food had been brilliant, the accommodations were splendid, yet for all their merriment when the rest of their band arrived there was something off. There was something off about the Hobbit beyond his reluctance to leave his home, let alone the Shire. The emphasis on being a respectable Hobbit seemed to be at the core of his reluctance. The brothers quietly whispered questioned a race who placed respectability on being well fed, clothed and housebound for their entire life. Especially housebound. The rest were perhaps common, but that _need_ to stay in the Shire was something the brothers did not understand.

**_Thud…_ **

“Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not Today. Good morning! But please come to tea – any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Good bye!”* The rapid-fire dismissal was without curiosity or wanderlust, it was almost scared, but Thorin sensed it had nothing to do with the dragon wallowing in the seas of Lonely Mountains wealth. The shine in the little creature’s eyes when they had mentioned the amounts of gold held a gold-lust rivalled perhaps by the greediest of dwarves but it was shut down immediately by words that didn’t belly one ounce of truth in them. Thorin wondered about this Hobbit, as he had met no other and refused to spend time wondering about them. This Hobbit was not afraid of danger as much as it was leaving home. What strange creature had those priorities, the dwarven prince wondered.

**_Thud…_ **

The light rustle of a Hobbit rushing through the brush was something the band hadn’t encountered before, but before weapons could be drawn against whatever it was that was rushing towards them a familiar voice shouted for the entourage to halt. Bilbo had joined them, as a thief no less, the dwarves wondered about the logic Gandalf applied to that as they had seen little to no stealthy or thief-like behavior from the little gentlehobbit who stood, bowed over and panting, before them.

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

The trek to Rivendell was uneventful, the three trolls aside. The Wizard had tongue twisted the terrible three into an argument that had quite literally turned them to stone.

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

Elrond, despite the initial reluctance to show the elf anything, let alone the map home, had proven to be a great help.

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

Their capture by the goblins as well as the sight of the grim, gruesome goblin king was something that would stay with the company for a long time.

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

“He's been lost ever since he left his home. He should not have come, he has no place among us.”*

**_Thud..._ **

**_Thud…_ **

“Oh, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth total profit if any. Seems fair. Present company shall not be liable for injuries including but not limited to laceration, evisceration... incineration?”*

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

“Why the Halfling?”

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_**  
  
“I do not know,”*

**_Thud…_ **

**_Thud…_ **

Words and events ran in circles in Bilbo’s head, thoughts he had gleaned, blood rushing through his veins loud enough to where his ears were overwhelmed by the sound. The orcs were everywhere, yet the real reason for his fear came once again from inside. He had been scared during the events of the trolls, yet not of the beasts themselves. The goblin king was indeed terrifying, only for what he brought out from within. Laughter and merriment was the law, the standard of which to uphold, being at peace and being sedate. No rush of emotion, no stabs of fear. Peace was indeed a lie, but peace kept things hidden, things that weren’t supposed to be disturbed. Entranced by these dwarves, entranced by their plight, utterly entranced with cold blue eyes, a moment of clarity arose.

Azog the defiler. A creature capable of more evil than what was within. A creature threatening to shut those ice blue eyes forever made the choice Bilbo had made when he set foot out of the Shire even clearer. He was betraying everything he was taught about being a respectable Hobbit. Hobbits were peace, Hobbits were lies, and now the company would know of his deception. The deception of the entire Hobbit race.

“Thorin!” A desperate cry from one of the fellows.

**_Now…_ **

It was time for the ring to come off.

With an inhuman screech that cut through everything, sent wargs scurrying and birds flying, the creature that had taken the name Bilbo Baggins flew into action, from the overturned tree they had all been trapped in, faster than the eye could follow, Sting in hand, newly clawed, furred feet dug grooves in the ground as the little thing rushed towards the great Defiler, the rush of the brush as he had joined them a roar of noise in compare. Silent, moving. A snarl so inhumane it drew the attention of even the mighty Orc ripped from the tiny throat of the creature that was Bilbo Baggins. Peace was a lie, but Thorin would be saved. Azog would never defile again.

Cries of a battle between beasts roared louder than the flames, the sound of ripping flesh pierced the ears of the dwarves scrambling back onto the overturned tree, flames obscuring the view. Their Bilbo was lost, he was lost, and so was Thorin, their King, their last hope, no other answer occurred to them. In a fit of impassioned dwarven rage they clambered back to steady footing, before drawing their weapons at once, as by an unheard command, and charged their enemies – they would go down fighting as warriors.

…

What greeted the remaining company as they charged through the flames was not what they expected. Not at all. Thorin lay on a rock, badly wounded, chest rising and falling, but that was not what shocked the dwarves to the core. Amongst the torn and bloody bits of flesh that had once made up Azog and his band of wretches stood a silent, unmoving Bilbo Baggins. Aznog’s head lolled a few feet over, dead-frozen mouth still snarling. The Halfling was covered in black poison blood, the glow of Sting fading away, yet nothing was darker than the eyes that stared at them from the familiar face.

“B-Bilbo?” Kili questioned, his voice hesitant, his grip on his weapons still firm.  
  
“So now you know.” Bilbo remarked, his voice the same put-upon sigh he’d carried when they had, according to him, invaded his hobbit-hole. “I am not a respectable Hobbit any longer.” The statement seemed so absurd, coming from that tiny creature covered in the blood and bits of creatures that should have, by all accounts, ripped the Halfling to pieces.

“So there is some truth to the moniker _Halfling,_ after all.” Gandalf spoke, warily, as he moved up behind the weapon wielding dwarves. His staff was drawn and his eyes were clouded.

“We honestly thought you’d figured us out by now.” Bilbo said, conversationally.  
  
“So you really are Balbo, then.” The Maia questioned, this time his staff lowered, the tip lost its glow. The rest of the company watched the exchange between the wizard and the Halfling with rapt, fearful attention.

“That’s why some of us didn’t like you visiting the Shire; you’d smell the shit in the pie, so to speak.” Bilbo smiled, yet the darkened eyes ruined the effect and instead of seeing the warm, kindly little gentlehobbit that had bemoaned the destruction of his larder, the company saw something new, something dangerous.

“What are you?” Gloin interrupted forcefully, his axe twitching with indecisiveness.

“Shadow walker, you deceive us.” Balin, the old sage hissed quietly, the company, Gandalf as well, fell silent at his proclamation.

“No deception meant. Not towards you personally, anyway, and no cruelty. I haven’t hurt you, have I?” Bilbo questioned, his voice patient, but his moving feet betrayed his want to run, back to the Shire perhaps. Squabbling and finger pointing ensued amongst the rest of the company before Gandalf’s voice cut through.  
“I know now what you are, Child of Morgoth.” Bilbo flinched at the accusation.  
“A child should not be held responsible for his father’s actions.”  
“Perhaps, Morgothian, perhaps.” The wizard stated, quietly, while he sheathed his sword.  
“How can you trust this Shadow Walker, Gandalf?” Balin croaked, eyes still fixed on the blood covered form of Bilbo.  
“Has he hurt us?” Gandalf questioned patiently.  
“No, but-” Balin continued, eyes never shifting their gaze.  
“Has he hurt us, has he deliberately tried to hurt us?” Gandalf questioned again, patiently, as he slowly strode forwards towards Bilbo.  
“No” Came the resigned sigh from the wizened dwarf.

“We need to tend to Thorin, he’s hurt.” Bilbo interrupted the conversation between Balin and Gandalf and all eyes turned to him. “We can’t lose our king now, can we?” The black eyes had recede to brown, to comfortable, familiar, very Hobbit, brown. The joking tone solidified the good intentions Bilbo possessed, and despite distrust and general wariness, the rest of the company agreed.

“Thorin first, you are right, Shadow Walker, but we aren’t done with this, not by a long shot.” Balin grumbled as he ambled up to the prone form of his king to begin checking him over. The rest of the company joined Balin around their king, but taking care not to get to close to Bilbo. They formed a wall between the Morgothian and their king, the fact that Bilbo was to thank for their king’s life seemed irrelevant.  Gandalf proved, once again, the exception, and strode, albeit carefully, towards the Halfling.  
  
“Half creature, half shadow: Halfling.” Gandalf said when he was within arm’s reach of Bilbo.  
“We thought it funny, but Hobbit hid things better.” Bilbo replied with a shrug.  
“What shall I call you then?” The old wizard questioned the creature before him.  
“Bilbo.” The Halfling answered. “That’s my name.” he continued.  
“But you are Balbo.” Gandalf spoke with conviction.  
“Not anymore, not since the funeral.” Bilbo stated simply, as if it were the most basic concept.  
“How did you-” the Maia stopped for loss of words and gestured to his face.  
“Blood.” Bilbo said, another simple sounding answer that bellied things that Gandalf was almost afraid to ask about. “Animal blood, don’t look at me like that, we might be a lie, peace is a lie, but we made a choice.” Bilbo said firmly. “I might not be a respectable Hobbit any longer, but I refuse to have my actions pulled into question.” The words brought a glimmer of mirth to Gandalf’s eyes.  
“And what, pray tell, are the actions of a respectable Hobbit, master Baggins?” The teasing voice of the old Wizard put Bilbo more at ease than it should have,  
“We hid. We didn’t want to be hunted. A quiet little place with joy, merriment, no crime, no bluster, muss or fuss was easy to maintain – we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” Bilbo took a breath as if to steel himself “I shouldn’t have come, Gandalf, I honestly shouldn’t have. But I am one of the elders, I have been in the Shire for millennia. I was tired. I am tired of being a Hobbit.” The Morgothian admitted, quietly. “Most of all,” Bilbo said with a smile “I am tired of being a respectable Hobbit. Piles of food every day to curb the hunger. Clothes that restrict movement. Tired of parties and meaningless conversations with the same people in different faces and phases. I am tired Old Friend.” Bilbo stopped for a second, his face betrayed a stray thought crossing, “And no more of this calling me “Young one” business,” Gandalf’s throaty laugh reached across the outcropping they were on, putting the dwarves tending to Thorin at ease, somewhat.

“He is badly hurt.” Balin’s voice carried across the outcrop “We need-“ the order was cut short as Bilbo moved towards the prone king, giving in to an urge he had repressed in respect of the dwarves surrounding Thorin.  
“I can help him.” Stammered the Halfling, his voice sounding so unlike something that could rip a Defiler to shreds that the blood on his, once fine, clothes, became a stark contrast.  
“Shadow Walkers weren’t created to heal.” Balin spit out, his distrust and protectiveness coming to the forefront.  
“Not in the traditional way, no.” Sighed Bilbo, “But I can help.” He said again, “Please, let me.” The Halfling beseeched.  
“Can we trust you?” Kili piped up, from the back of the group facing Bilbo. The Halfling sighed, that trademark put-upon sigh, and spoke decisively:  
“By the mound, yes, you silly dwarf, you can trust me. You know why? If you couldn’t have trusted me you would all be dead now, buried under the mounds of the Shire like the rest of our secrets and no one would have been the wiser. Good lord, I’ve faced goblins, orcs, and days without second breakfast to curb my hunger yet none of you were harmed by me. I didn’t even clobber you when you disrespected Elrond, which you would have deserved, thank you very much, so yes, you can trust me!” The petulant tone of voice bellied everything an insulted respectable Hobbit should be, but the words were everything but.  
“Elrond knew?” Gandalf questioned.  
“Of course. The only elf let in on the secret. He helped us, covertly, in the beginnings of the Shire, he believes in second chances, you know, unlike these stubborn fools” Bilbo gestured rudely towards the gaggle of dwarves.  
“All right, then, Shadow Walker, heal him.” Balin grumped. The rest of the dwarves looked between Balin and Bilbo warily, but the Halfling approached undeterred.

Bilbo sighed deeply as he walked towards Thorin’s still form, he crouched down beside the king’s head, the bloodied clothes he wore squelched, and studied the wrongness of it all. Thorin, a dwarf so full of life and passion, should not be laying still like this. Like a young bird dropped from its nest too early. The Halfling rolled up his sleeve and put his own wrist to his mouth before biting down, small fangs usually hidden by his normal teeth, easing the process. The second the taste of copper filled his mouth the Halfling held his bleeding wrist down to the still lips of the dwarven king and coaxed the deep red liquid inside his mouth.  
“What are you-” Bombur moved to charge at Bilbo but one look stilled his rapid approach, brown turned black once more and fangs gleamed in the moonlight.  
“Healing him, now shush.”  

Bilbo gently massaged Thorin’s throat to coax the blood down, marveling at the softness of the king’s beard. Soon a primal urge took over the dwarf, even in his unconscious state, and he began to drink and swallow on his own. The companions, as well as Gandalf, looked on with a mix of wariness and disgust, although the wizard replaced the latter with a sense of curiosity. Bilbo started to feel weak, to do this without having fed properly wasn’t the smartest idea but he had to do something. When dizziness threatened to overtake the Halfling he wrenched his wrist away from the still suckling dwarf and licked it, his spit closing the wounds and leaving nothing but unblemished skin. He sat down on the cold ground and stared at Thorin, he could sense the blood was working, he was becoming aware of the King in a way that he wasn’t before. Bilbo was conflicted, it was really an invasion of privacy, and unbeknownst to the companions this was quite the intimate act for Morgothians, but he had signed the contract, he had become entranced by this blasted dwarf, and by the power of all the things he knew, he would save Thorin no matter the cost, even to his own sanity.

“I am supposed to be dead.” The croaking voice of Thorin snapped Bilbo out of his musings and he ended up staring right into ice blue eyes. He _felt_ the confusion coursing through his king because of the blood. It was a bit disturbing. Bilbo hadn’t _shared_ with anyone for centuries, he’d forgotten how _intimate_ it was.  
“Bilbo saved you!” It was Fili who piped up, standing beside his brother. Balin and the other dwarves, Kili included, shot him dark looks. Thorin looked confused, then his eyes landed on the severed head of Azog’s head.  
“How?” He questioned brashly. Bilbo was too caught up in feeling the emotions coursing through Thorin.  
“How did you save me, Master Baggins?” Thorin questioned again, louder. Bilbo snapped back from the intense and intimate feeling of Thorin’s emotions and started stammering under the cold gaze of the dwarf. There was some anger mixing in with the confusion now. _Anger_? **_Anger_**? Honestly, who did Thorin think he _was_? Bilbo had just _exposed_ everything and risked the very existence of the Shire just to save this ungrateful dwarf.

”Just who do you think you are, being angry at me?” Bilbo hissed in Thorin’s face.  
 “I’m not-” Thorin tried to interject but he was cut off.  
“I have not only saved your life, twice in the same instance, but in healing your stubborn ass I-“ Bilbo stammered and tried to get his words out but the dizziness he felt from Thorin taking too much blood claimed him – he fell back into unconsciousness.


	2. Fill'er up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a few rabbits can do tricks beyond being pulled out of top-hats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the response has been amazing. Really amazing. This is my first attempt at a Tolkien verse fic so please, please feel free to correct me. 
> 
> EDIT: Thank you so much for comments and suggestions ShippingWolfQueen, you are now drafted into the "Keep this author writing"-brigade!

“Master Baggins!” Thorin jack-knifed up to see what was wrong with the Halfling when he paused for a split second. “My wounds…” He whispered reverently as he started shoving his many layers of clothing aside to look at his torso, which should by all accounts have been “Halfling!” Thorin growled at the prone form of the thief.  
“You-drank-his-blood” came the rushed explanation from the back of the company, it was Fili again. This time the rest of the company just sighed, the cat would escape the bag somehow and it was better it did so sooner rather than later. Thorin was never good with having information withheld from him.  
“I drank his-” Thorin dug into his own mouth and his fingers came out bloody. The blood was darker than any dwarven blood he’d ever seen, so it couldn’t be his own. He felt sick. The king looked down at Bilbo’s prone form then back to the company for an explanation.  
“He’s a Shadow Walker, Thorin.” Balin said with finality. Thorin’s brows drew together in anger, he quickly wiped his fingers off on his furs and drew his sword, marveling at the amount of strength that had returned to him.  
“Kill the abomination!” Thorin roared wildly, but before his sword could hit pay-dirt a clang of metal stopped the descending weapon from cleaving Bilbo’s skull in two.  
“You fool dwarf! Is this how you repay a life-debt?” The skies darkened even more, if possible, as Gandalf the Grey shouted down the dwarven king. “He risked his life, his people, his safety for you and all you can do is try to kill him?” The disappointment in the wizards voice was clear.  
“He’s a Shadow Walker, I’ve heard the tales.” Thorin grumbled as he sheathed his sword again.  
“He’s Bilbo Baggins first and foremost!” Gandalf concluded firmly.

Thorin wouldn’t admit it, and neither would the rest of the dwarves, but he cowered under the stern gaze of the wizard. He had no illusions about how wily the old Maia could be. The king shifted his gaze back down to Bilbo, who, in his state, had no idea how dishonorably Thorin was about to repay his sacrifice. The King sat down and stared at the little creature. Gone were the well-manicured toenails, replaced by claws, the pointed ears had only gotten sharper, fingernails that had seemed like they belonged in an elven court were elongated, strong, rugged, like stone picks. His hair was longer too, darker. This wasn’t the little hobbit they had dragged from the Shire, yet there was something so familiar, so tender. It hurt to look at the small transformations that made up a whole. Thorin had such trouble reconciling their reluctant little burglar with this blood covered feral creature before him that had apparently exhausted itself saving him.

“I can’t believe it.” Thorin said, finally, and the breath that had been held by the rest of the company was expelled.  
“I know, Thorin, I know.” Balin moved up beside his king and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “But, we do have him to thank for your returned strength.” The old dwarf sounded conflicted.  
“I know, but he’s a Shadow Walker.” Thorin managed quite well to sound both disgruntled, betrayed and lost at the same time.  
“A child of Morgoth.” Gandalf said with a steady voice.  
“Reminding us of his heritage doesn’t help at all.” Bofur growled.  
“Remember what Bilbo said about not being judged by the sins of his father?” Gandalf questioned gently.  
“When did he say that?” Thorin rudely questioned.  
“When you were bleeding out on this very same rock.” Balin muttered, he was just as conflicted as the rest of the dwarves. Gandalf seemed to have made up his mind.  
“I am stronger. I feel it in my bones.” The dwarven king remarked. “I can see things I couldn’t see before.” He stretched out a battle-worn hand and stared at his own fingers as if he had never seen them before. The small scars and weathering left from a life of hardships fascinated him greatly.  
“The dark blood will do that. It is lifesaving, but addictive.” The old wizard cautioned, he too crouched down and put a hand on the dwarven kings shoulders.  
“I don’t want it.” Thorin had always been a dwarf of self-make, having lived without titles or lands forced him to do right by himself and to do his best at all times. This _cheat_ was unexpected and not welcome: it gave Thorin an edge he didn’t have naturally, and he didn’t take comfort from the fact.   
“Now you do. It was freely given.” The Maia said, gently.   
“Will it go away?” The company hadn’t heard Thorin sound so meek before, but it was a valid question. A matter of pride in fact.

“Eventually, I should think. I am no expert. Our expert is out cold.” Gandalf remarked with some amusement. “And if you had killed him, where would we be then?” A cold shame flushed over Thorin and he averted his eyes from his kinsmen.  
“It was dishonorable.” Thorin admitted, his voice strained.  
“It was.” Balin conceded “But we all understand. We thought you were both dead. We feared, we feared so much.” The old dwarf continued. “We were hanging on that tree, all of us, hearing how Azog tossed you about” Thorin flinched at the memory of being so useless “And then we heard something more terrifying, a sound so unnatural it made my bones shiver. Then Bilbo moved. We heard a fight, it was horrible, we were sure Azog had torn you both to pieces.” Balin took a deep breath, his voice had become unsteady. “But we reached through the flames and Bilbo was there, alive - alive and Azog was minced.” The vision of this dark eyed little creature standing amongst a mass of body parts would stay with the company until they died. “He looked possessed, but then he spoke, and it was Bilbo, he was nothing but Bilbo. And that scares me.” Balin admitted.  
“It scares us too.” Fili said, the two brothers had slung an arm across each other’s shoulders. Bofur and Bombur just grumbled, although the latter had found a piece of food in his pockets that he was occupied with.

  
“Is eating really necessary now?” Questioned Kili.  
“I’m stressed.” Bombur said around a mouthful of whatever it was he’d located. The company left it alone – dealing with a Shadow Walker would be much easier if Bombur wasn’t hungry.  
“What do we do then?” Gloin questioned, gesturing to the prone form of the Morgothian.  
“We wake him up.” Gandalf said simply, and he realized now why Bilbo had looked so amused when giving off his own simple answers when the old wizard looked around at the disgruntled company. All disgruntled, except for one.  
“I think we should keep ’im.” Dwalin finally spoke.  The rest of the company, Gandalf included, looked at him. “He hasn’t hurt us. He might be of dark blood, but he’s proven willing to kill for us, for you Thorin.” Dwalin wasn’t a dwarf of many words unless it concerned food or battle, something he’d proven well when he stormed into Bilbo’s hobbit-hole looking for supper.  
“He did heal you, Thorin.” Balin reminded gently. Seeing his own brother take a stand had made the old dwarf a bit surer of his own.  
“How do we wake him, then?” Thorin questioned.  
“Blood.” Gandalf said, simply. This simplicity game was a fun pursuit, the old wizard noticed, it coupled well with the vagueness he already employed. “When I said he had much more to give than we knew… I never imagined this.” Gandalf said.

In the middle of their debate the prone form of Bilbo jerked, turned over, groaned pitifully.  
“Dear me, this is unpleasant.” Bilbo ground out, holding his stomach. “I swallowed some orc.” Bilbo hacked up some black bits, his body quaking with the effort, and moved a hand up to dig some slivers out of his fangs. “Foul, foulness, dear god, disgusting” he mumbled to himself. The little Halfling flopped onto his back, the entire company staring at him. “Get me… something… to wash it out with.” Bilbo wheezed, clutching his revolting abdomen. Bombur held up a wineskin, hopefully, but put it down just as quick when both Bilbo and Gandalf levelled him with stares that truly bellied the stupidity of that act.  
“Blood.” Bilbo ground out.  
“Blood.” Gandalf agreed sagely.

The company looked at each other, back to the wizard and the Shadow Walker, then looked at each other again. Spilling blood for a comrade was one thing, but spilling blood to _feed_ a comrade was an entirely new conundrum.  
“Get me an animal you louts.” Apparently being hungry made Bilbo just as disagreeable as Bombur in the same state. Fili and Kili jumped into action.  
“Fili”  
“And Kili”  
“At your service.” They parodied the words they had spoken the first time they met the Bilbo and it made the Morgothian smile. The two, who were the least injured of the party at this point, Bilbo notwithstanding, gathered their hunting supplies and sped off in the direction the orcs had come from. Gandalf stopped them before they made it far.  
“Here. Take this. It is dangerous to go alone” The old wizard had picked up Sting and gave it to them.  
“Bring it back safe, use it as a warning. Run at the slightest shimmer.” The dwarven brothers nodded carefully.  
“Thank you.” Wheezed Bilbo. “Bring back live bait if you can. Better for healing.” He slumped back down and coughed some more before slipping into oblivion.  Kili tied Sting around his waist alongside his other weapons and nodded at the company before the two set off.

“We’ve decided to keep ‘im. Let’s get ‘im comfortable.” Dwalin said. He took off his own cloak and bundled it into a makeshift pillow and bent down to place it under Bilbo’s head. Balin moved forth with another cloak he placed over the Halfling for warmth.

“We move after Fili and Kili return. It’s not safe here.” Thorin said, as he settled down on a nearby rock to wait, blade in hand.  
“If Bilbo has recovered enough.” Balin countered. Thorin scouted the surrounding outcroppings and rose to peer down over the ledge they had so dangled from earlier.  
“If not we help him.” Thorin said with finality.  
“You’ve changed your tune.” Balin said, knowingly. “You would have felt more than the guilt of murdering a companion, wouldn’t you?” Thorin jerked, as if struck by something small. He tried to glare his old friend into submission but it didn’t help. “I might have grown wider with the years, but I am still sharp enough for us both.” The king nodded dismissively and continued staring into the distance, keeping vigil.

The enhanced senses both exhilarated and bothered Thorin. He didn’t feel too dwarven anymore. Was this, perhaps, how elves saw the world? Colors were more vivid, as much as he could tell in the moonlight, and even darkness seemed to be no hindrance in counting the twigs on trees a good fifty paces away. Thorin reflected back on his time with Bilbo and suddenly all the discrepancies came together. Of course something more dangerous than a horde of orcs would look like a grocer, the logic was there, somewhat, keep it hidden, keep it safe, the secret. Thorin even snorted when he remembered what he’d told Gandalf, about not being responsible for the Halfling nor troubled with his outcome, if such a thing should occur on the journey. What a riot, it was the Halfling who had saved Thorin from his own outcome, what surprises the Halfling held indeed. Gandalf might not have known what exactly a Hobbit could bring to the table beyond stealth, and Thorin was deadly aware of where that ability came from now, but the wizard sure had made an interesting choice, it turned out. No wonder the little thing had been so belligerent towards a king of dwarves – he’d almost outlived the entire line of Durin! He was probably making tea and supper without a care when Durin came screaming into the world. The second breakfast made sense as well. So did brunch, lunch, tea, dinner, supper and the insufferable midnight snacks. Mushrooms indeed. Thorin snorted at his own ridiculousness. Here he’d been hell bent on protecting the little sod, thinking this grocer-looking Halfling would never amount to much, and here he was, waiting for two companions to bring live blood so Bilbo could wash down the bits of Azog he’d accidentally swallowed.

“The wild is no place for gentle-folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” Dwalin said as he moved towards Thorin “That’s what I said to him, at the table, remember?” Thorin nodded at his fellow dwarf and smirked.  
“We’re a bunch of fools, aren’t we?” The king admitted.  
“I never thought the wee thing capable of something like this.” Dwalin sighed, rubbing a gloved hand over his bald head.  
“ _We’re_ not capable of something like that.” Thorin’s pride had taken quite a battering the last few hours, it could handle a few more strokes the King reckoned. Being served humble pie by something that was even shorter than a dwarf wasn’t all that palatable in the first place.

“Dwarf, Ho!” Came the familiar shouts that ripped Thorin and Dwalin from their musings. They must have pondered their new conundrum longer than they had thought. Fili and Kili came up over the ridge, two squirming rabbits in a snare. “We have food for Bilbo!” One of the brothers crowed, they were so alike in tone sometimes it was hard not to mistake them for twins had it not been for their colors.  
“Let’s see if he wants to wake up then” Dori said gently. He’d been whispering in Khazdul with Bifur, his gentle nature would perhaps be paramount to waking a sleeping Shadow Walker. He walked over to Bilbo and shook him carefully, careful not to jostle the creature too much.  
“Wha-” Bilbo tried to speak but Dori cut him off.  
“Fili and Kili brought you two live rabbits.” The dwarf had had a couple of hours to think about the entire situation and he came to the conclusion that he was quite fond of little Bilbo, even if the Hobbit wasn’t a Hobbit. He took the two squirming animals from the brothers and handed them to the Shadow Walker.

Faster than anyone could blink there was a loud snap and the sound of furious gulping. Bilbo had wrung the neck of one of them and was furiously drinking from it, not a drop spilled. Sooner than most of the company had anticipated, he flung one drained rabbit to the side with a thud and went on to the next one. He drained that one just as quickly.  
“Oh my, that was needed.” Bilbo sighed contentedly. “Bebother and confusticate those blasted orcs. Aren’t even made properly.” He burped and picked up both the rabbits.  
“What are you doing?” Bombur questioned, he’d thought that the rabbits would be thrown away.  
“We can still eat them,” Bilbo said “If anything it’s a much cleaner job of getting out the meat, without all the blood in the way.” The other dwarves nodded. The Halfling turned on Fili and Kili “Thank you for getting me these.” He held up the rabbit carcasses. “I’ll forgive you two, and you alone, for the destruction of my larder.” He said, firmly.  
“What, still going on about all of us eating your food?” Dwalin said, a bit spitefully.  
“Well, yes, most of it was made by certain rituals to keep me nourished, so yes, I am.” Bilbo said firmly.  
“Even the molded cheese?” Balin queried.  
“Even the molded cheese.” Bilbo answered.


	3. Of monikers and makers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where information is given and things are taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos, your comments, your help. It's been positively overwhelming to post this fic. I have always been afraid of writing anything within the Tolkien fandom because I was always afraid I'd muck it up. Your support has been priceless. Absolutely priceless. So for two days I've been writing and churning and eating and sleeping just because you helped me overcome my fear of posting in this fandom. Thank you all <3

The other dwarves had stayed clear of Bilbo, still a bit wary, especially after his quick dealings with the rabbits. Even Fili and Kili looked a bit disturbed even though they had brought the fluffy little things to him. Thorin, however, had inched closer and closer to the Halfling.  
“Bilbo.” Thorin began, a bit uncertain, which was unlike the usual demeanor of the king. “I thought you would be a burden; that you couldn’t survive in the wild,” Thorin took a deep, steeling breath “I thought you had no place among us… but you are of the wild, aren’t you? I have never been so wrong in all my life.” That last part came out in a rush and Bilbo reckoned that admission must have hurt Thorin more than it hurt him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.” Bilbo stood there, a bit shocked at the apology, but was wrenched from his frozen state when the stout dwarf pulled him into a bone crushing, even for a Morgothian, hug. Bilbo wasn’t sure if the joy that he felt came from Thorin or himself, that cursed blood link, but the Halfling was happy all the same. They finally let go of each-other, and for some strange reason the rest of the company was clapping, but that wasn’t what Bilbo preoccupied with now, the feelings became clearer – why was Thorin feeling joy, _now_? The Halfling had forgotten how the emotional bleed could be for the first couple of hours after a sharing – it was disturbing. And invasive. But after that proclamation Bilbo didn’t have the heart to tell Thorin exactly what the sharing entailed. He liked the status quo as it was thank you very much.

“So… when are we moving?” Bilbo asked his fellows, after gently untangling himself from Thorin. He’d skinned the rabbits and packed the meat away safely in his pack just before Thorin came over. One of the rabbit skins were slung about his neck for warmth – the lack of proper meals left him a bit chillier than he was comfortable with.  
“Can you walk and talk at the same time?” Balin queried with a smirk.  
“Of course I can, what sort of-” The Halfling paused “You wish to know more.” He stated when he saw the poorly hidden curiosity on the faces that were turned towards him.  
“Well, yes.” Balin said “It’s not every day we meet a Shadow Walker.” Everyone started gathering whatever hadn’t fallen over the cliff or gone missing.  
“Well, first thing’s first then, Master Dwarf, Shadow Walker is a name my kind reserve for Balrogs, So Halfling, Hobbit, Morgothian or Melkorian, depending on your leanings, will do just fine.” Bilbo went into lecture mode – after all, Halflings did bear children every decade or so, if so inclined, it was important to be a teacher as well as a provider. Bilbo had none of his own but he knew his sister, in this phase, planned to have one. They were soon ambling along the road towards their destination.  
“Melkorian?” Gandalf questioned, eyebrows raised.  
“Before our… creator” Bilbo was hesitant to use that word “rebelled against the Valar he had a name, a different name, Melkor, not Morgoth.” They had started walking down the other side where the orcs had originally come from. They were heading to the halls of Beorn according to Gandalf.  
“I think the reason the few of us that have prospered in the Shire have been allowed to do so was mostly because we snuck away before the entire Silmarillion business. Dreadful, really.” Bilbo continued as he nimbly stepped over stones – those rabbits were good.  
“Silma- what?” Fili called from further back.  
“The hearts of the two trees, fashioned by Feanor. Our maker took them. One of his many crimes if I remember correctly. I wasn’t born until right before the founding of the Shire. What I know are mere tales passed down.” The company kept winding down the paths. They were listening intently to their smallest member.  
“So the Shire was founded around the time of Rivendell?” Gandalf questioned.  
“I’d suspect so, I was only a waif when it was all said and done. We grow up slowly.” Bilbo said. “And our growth is stunted, mostly for lack of proper food. Some things sustain, others promote growth.” It was a bit vague but most of the company understood the underlying message: _sentient beings have the best blood_.  
“Why is it so?” Balin pressed.  
“I wish I knew, it’s not like our creator sent us off into the world with a handbook.” Bilbo refrained from telling them that elves tasted absolutely divine – he was sure that they’d be torn between setting him on the nearest elven settlement and becoming wary again because of the fact that he knew which of the three humanoid races tasted the best. Bilbo had a theory that they were made to hunt elves, but he’d kept it to himself. If Melkor wanted to destroy the work of Feanor he could do it on his own time, if he so pleased, Bilbo barely had time for this adventure, let alone a long elf-hunt, with all the eating he was forced to do to stay sane. The clawing of a bone-deep hunger was an experience he didn’t want to repeat, that time when he’d gotten sick and woken up with a stomach caved in and screaming for nourishment was enough. Bilbo started keeping livestock after that. The Halfling mused about how he would have time, actually, if he fed on the elves as well as hunted them, he’d be stronger too, but he liked the elves, Elrond in particular, so his creator could just stuff it.

The company kept walking, after the night they’d had it was needed to find somewhere safe to shelter for a while before they moved on. Bilbo was somewhat well off, those rabbits did him good, Thorin was pressing on like a bull, fuelled by Bilbo’s blood, but the rest of the fellows, Gandalf included, seemed to need some rest. Each dwarf spent time asking questions, and Bilbo tried to answer them as best he could – it was only expected that they were curious of his nature, the only remaining proof of Shadow Walkers, as they so ignorantly had named his species, were old wives tales and legends used to scare dwarven children into bed at night.

After enough questions to where Bilbo was certain he was travelling with a bunch of fauntlings, the Halfling slowly slipped backwards in the formation they were walking in until he and Gandalf made up the rear. Bilbo had been thinking about how to breech the subject, he’d been thinking about it since they crawled out into the sunlight after the horrible goblins had tried to do their damage. For one, his little stunt with Azog made things easier, but they also made it a lot harder. This was a reminder of everything a respectable Hobbit was supposed to abstain from, and it had bothered Bilbo greatly. He clenched his hands around the little ring in his pocket and made a choice: he couldn’t carry this alone, he wasn’t sure if his suspicions were correct but the little whispers in his ears scared him.

“We need to talk.” Bilbo had been meaning to talk to Gandalf, he had, but with all the commotion, the exposing of his heritage as well as watching over someone passed out before passing out himself it just hadn’t come up. The rest of the group had cheerily bowled on ahead, the thought of finding a suitable resting spot had apparently brightened their spirits and quickened their steps.  
“Oh?” The old wizard questioned. He used his staff as a walking stick and looked every bit the old decrepit man, something most who had seen him in action would dispute.  
“I found something. During the goblin incident.” Bilbo wasn’t sure what to call being captured by hordes of ugly little wretches that made his skin crawl, especially since he knew he had some blood relation to their creator. Gandalf looked thoughtful, he’d had a suspicion, he could sense something, but placing a finger on what it was seemed impossible. They stepped over some especially stubborn rocks in their path, Bilbo struggling while Gandalf flared out his long legs, before Bilbo continued.  
“I found something and it seems familiar.” The rock that had dropped in the Maia’s stomach seemed to expand. He knew _who_ had taken up home under the Goblin Mountains and _what_ might have been there.  

“It feels of Morgothian make.” Bilbo whispered, he fingered the piece of jewelry in his pocket. Gandalf stopped completely and stared into Bilbo’s eyes.  
“Is it a ring?” the old wizard asked, his voice quivering a bit, as if he really didn’t want the answer. “Was there a Gollum keeping it?” Bilbo’s eyebrows shot close to his hairline as he stared into the swirling eyes of an Istari, not just a travelling companion and friend. Gandalf read his face like an open book and continued on: “Can you hear it whisper?”  
“I can, but how did you know?” Bilbo hissed, frantically.  
“I know who lives under that mountain, his name is Gollum,” The dramatic pause didn’t sit well with Bilbo so the short creature harrumphed when he felt the Maia was taking too long to gather his thoughts into words “he used to be a hobbit like creature, or so I thought, until your little revelation, he was corrupted by this ring. It was made by Sauron.” At the sound of that last name Bilbo sucked in a breath  
“It’s the ring of power then.” Gandalf looked taken aback. Perhaps the Hobbit’s weren’t as secluded as they portrayed themselves to be. The old wizard stared beseechingly at the Halfling walking beside him. “Sauron swayed to our creator, taught him things,” Bilbo whispered as he fiddled with the strange ring in his pocket. “No wonder I could feel some kinship with this thing.” He continued in a small voice. “It wasn’t by my maker but one of his subjects.” Gandalf stared long and hard at Bilbo.  
“And the corruption?” he asked.  
“It whispers of old, of times gone by. Nothing I haven’t heard from the ones who decided to leave the Shire.” Bilbo said firmly. Not every Morgothian wanted to play nice, and they didn’t, and when they struck out on their own they weren’t heard of again, most of the time. Some even declared that the term Morgothian was disrespectful to their maker and claimed the name Melkorian in honor of what was taken from their Father and Lord. Bilbo never subscribed to such nonsense. He’d kept his head down for millennia, and if it hadn’t been for this sudden burst of wanderlust, he would have let time stand still in the Shire for millennia more.  
“Are you sure?” Gandalf pressed on.  
“As sure as I can be. Keep watch.” Bilbo whispered with finality. The Maia nodded sagely, it was a wise decision. If anyone would be more resistant to the whispers of Sauron’s ring it would be those with kinship to him. One didn’t make a weapon that could backfire so easily.  
“I wish I was in the habit of gambling.” Gandalf said, finally. Now it was Bilbo’s turn to make an inquisitive sound.  
“I do believe a lot of dwarves would have owed me great sums if they had betted against me on the matter of you coming along.” Bilbo let out a sharp bark of laughter, drawing the attention of Gloin and Oin, who were walking some paces ahead of them.  
“What’s the merriment for?” Gloin questioned.  
“Gandalf wishes he’d made a bet of how useful I’d be on this quest.” Bilbo replied, and for the life of him he couldn’t keep the smug smirk off his face. The soft lines of a smile appeared around the wizards eyes while Gloin and Oin had the decency to look ashamed before they grinned at them.  
“Well I’m glad he didn’t” Oin said, before they walked on. Gloin made a grunting sound and Bilbo was sure he could write a book about how dwarves communicated with guttural sounds and stilted gestures from this trip alone. He mentioned such an idea to Gandalf and his laughter seemed to be an agreement.

Dawn had crept silently over the hills before they found a spot that was deemed easy enough to secure. Thorin had decided that they had enough time to rest for at least another night here before moving on to this Beorn fellow Gandalf had mentioned in passing. Most of the company agreed with his assessment, whether it was their concept or time or the way they hung all over each other, hoping their knees wouldn’t buckle, wasn’t clear. Fili and Kili, who had atop of their strenuous march, hunted for Bilbo sagged together in a heap on the softest spot of grass they could locate mere seconds after Thorin had announced his plans to stop. The fact that their equipment and bedrolls were still strapped onto their persons didn’t seem to bother the brothers one bit. Bilbo caught a rush of fondness from Thorin when the king looked at his nephews, and the Halfling felt a bit dirty for invading privacy like this, but the alternative would have been unthinkable.  
  
“I’m going to-” Bilbo caught the attention of the entire company as he weakly gestured towards the brush surrounding them “Food.” He said, finally. Understanding dawned on the faces of those who weren’t half asleep already. Balin smiled kindly at him while Gandalf waved him away with the hand that wasn’t holding the pipe he’d just dug up. Bilbo cautioned a guilty smile at the two, not guilt over the hunger as much as he felt the guilt of having kept this from them. Gandalf especially – he’d been a part of Bilbo’s life for decades, even if he’d pretended not to remember him that well when he finally met him again at the beginning of the quest. The fireworks really were spectacular. Bilbo took off his rabbit skin, coat and vest before departing. It was quite nice to wear only britches and a loose shirt. The suspenders he just left on, the bother of putting them back together when he was done hunting was not something he wished to tangle with. The Halfling took a deep breath and quietly slipped out of camp. He didn’t notice the eyes following him, the joy of finally trying his hand at hunting again was too distracting.

A rush of brush and bushes surrounded Bilbo, who embodied silence itself as he swept through the nearby forest. Luck was on his side, if he’d subscribed to such notions. The scent of animal was fresh, he followed. Up the trees, down the trunks, across the brooks and under stones he went, sunlight streaming through the canopy in a most enchanting fashion. Soon the Halfling came upon what he wanted. Another rabbit. A fat one this time. Juicy. With only speed and claws to his advantage Bilbo planned this out carefully, he hadn’t fed properly in years so his speed wasn’t optimal, neither was his accuracy. Positioning himself downwind, up a tree at a carefully calculated angle Bilbo made his strike. Pay-dirt. The Rabbit squealed a bit, it sensed perhaps that its life was about to end, but Bilbo shrugged and snapped its neck before sinking his fangs into it before suckling greedily. He made sure to not stain his shirt, it wouldn’t do to make the others even more uncomfortable. The fur tickled his gums but he didn’t mind, it was either this or finding some unsuspecting humanoid, and that was a can of worms he really didn’t feel like dropping into the middle of camp. Not when his revelation had gone as smoothly as it did.

Bilbo dropped the drained rabbit to the forest floor, he’d been right, it was juicy, but being a rabbit it didn’t sate him too well. He was just about to launch back up into the canopy when the snap of a twig caught his attention. He whirled around and came face to face with none other than Thorin.  
“You hunt well.” The dwarf said, he scrutinized the exsanguinated animal.  
“I was created that way.” Bilbo answered, warily.  
“Are you sated?” Thorin asked him.  
“No. Not yet.” The Halfling answered honestly while scolding himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings.  
“I needed to talk to you.” There was that uncomfortable tone of voice Thorin had used when he apologized for his preemptive judgment. Bilbo wondered what it was now. The Halfling didn’t say anything.

“I tried to kill you.”

Thorin Oakenshield was no bard, that was clear, but the abruptness of the words _I tried to kill you. Tried to kill you. **Kill**._ They went in one ear and summersaulted through Bilbo’s brain, leaving impressions he’d rather be without, before floating out the other.

“What?” Bilbo was certain that disbelief colored his tone of voice because he could remember no such thing.

“I tried to kill you.” Thorin repeated, perhaps a bit more forceful in tone. Not that it helped to clear up anything. “When you passed out.” They were getting somewhere, Bilbo noted with a cross noise directed at the dwarf before him. “I heard what you were and… I overreacted.” Thorin admitted, his voice almost faded into nothing when he spoke those last words, But Bilbo heard him clearly.

“Overreacted?” Bilbo blinked, cocked his head and wondered where in the dwarven handbook of how to grunt and hack your way through life trying to kill someone was classified as a mere _overreaction_. Apparently his incredulous tone as well as his expression must have woken up the more cognitive parts of Thorin’s speech pattern, they needed to be dusted off anyhow. He thought the emotional bleed would have stopped by now, but strong emotions, such as deep shame, apparently made it through.

“You’re ashamed.” Bilbo stated. Thorin reeled back as if struck. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, in many different conversations.  
“How?” He demanded, he was smarter than his every-day vocabulary let on, something was afoot.  
“Emotional bleed over, happens when you drink my blood.” Simple answers to big questions had always been a specialty of the Shire. Thorin looked conflicted, if a bit angry. Bilbo had apparently been correct in his musings when he thought that it was one aspect of the life-saving Thorin wouldn’t appreciate.  
“You could have told me.” The dwarf grumbled.  
“You tried to kill me.” Bilbo countered, even if it wasn’t exactly fair to use information that Thorin had brought him out of his own free will.  
“I came to apologize.” Thorin ground out.  
“Can we ignore logic and let two wrongs, despite their difference in severity, make a right?” Bilbo honestly didn’t want to fight with Thorin, not now, he was kind of exhausted, still a bit peckish, and getting into a screaming match really wouldn’t remedy any of those situations.  
“I guess we can.” The king conceded. “Still hungry then?” He questioned, looking at the twitching limbs of the Halfling and how he bounced on the balls of his naked feet.  
“Kind of starving, really, I haven’t done anything this strenuous for a long, long time.” _And this animal blood isn’t filling me up as it should_ was left unsaid.

Much to his shock Thorin stepped forward while unbuckling one of his bracers.  
“You saved my life and I tried to repay it in a most dishonorable way.” He said as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a toned underarm with strong veins. “Let me make it right, mine in exchange for yours.” Apparently Thorin was a dwarf who believed in tit for tat, even now, and Bilbo wasn’t one to say no.  
“Are you sure?” Bilbo searched for any uncertainty in that angular face, and found some, but the determined eyes beckoned him forward. Those blasted eyes. They were what lured him onto this quest in the first place. “You’ve had my blood, the reaction might not be what you expect.” Bilbo warned before he gently grabbed the offered hand. Thorin nodded and Bilbo brought Thorin’s offering up to his mouth and sunk his fangs into the hot flesh.

Praised be to _everything_. Elves be damned, this, _this_ was the taste Bilbo had been gagging for, the first mouthful was a relief, the second a benediction – the third, the fourth. Bilbo made an agonized sound around his mouthful as he carefully avoided any spillage. To waste such a good opportunity was unthinkable. The desperate sound was mirrored in a deeper baritone as Thorin’s knees buckled. Bilbo followed him down, lips and fangs still attached to the bite. If the respectable Hobbits could see him now, feel what he was feeling, he was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a respectable Hobbit left in the Shire. By the seas and shores, it was utterly divine, rich, flavored, seasoned, warm and utterly _perfect_.

Thorin’s heavy panting reached through to Bilbo’s addled mind and he retracted his fangs from the bite and licked gently over the wound, catching every stray drop.  The Halfling stared up at the dwarf, whose clouded eyes stared right back.  
“That was different.” It was a stupid thing to say, as it was quite an obvious thing, but Bilbo was full, sated, _not hungry_ , in a way he hadn’t been in a long, long time. Eloquence and the like could wait.    
“That it was.” Thorin agreed. He seemed to shake himself out of his daze. “Are you sated now?” he asked.  
“Yes.” Bilbo answered breathlessly.  
“We should-” Thorin gestured with his other arm in the general direction of the camp.  
“Yeah, we should.” Bilbo said. He got up on sure feet, the blood having already spread through his system and strengthened him considerably. The Hobbit gathered up the exsanguinated rabbit for Bombur to make another stew out of while Thorin covered his arm once more. It was without blemish.  The two walked back to camp in silence. The fact that both of them had pressing matters to attend to went unmentioned.


	4. Of beasts and beings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beorn is Beorn, Bilbo is not Bilbo because Bilbo is hungry and honestly this entire thing could have gone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Lord. This was so much fun to write!

The day of rest passed too quickly for most of the company, but for Bilbo it couldn’t come soon enough. The generous _donation_ Thorin had made had left the Halfling jittery with unspent energy, something that didn’t pass Gandalf by. A short exchange of “Was it willing?” from the wizard and an answering nod was enough to confirm exactly what had transpired between Bilbo and Thorin in the woods. The Halfling didn’t even want to star deciphering the smug half-smile the wizard tossed him after that conversation. Meddling, mothering, Maiar was something he had no time for. Knowing looks from Dori and Balin were somewhat uncomfortable. He hoped their knowledge, if they had any, was shifted in a direction that didn’t involve feasting on Thorin’s blood. Bilbo had counted on the scowling dwarven king to glare the two into submission, but in his dazed state, something that had nothing to do with blood loss judging by the color of his skin, saw that hope sail away. Bilbo hoped to all things sacred that the rest of the company _wouldn’t_ catch on to the happenings in the woods. Accepting that blood was one of the most nutritious things he could eat was one thing, knowing that he’d sampled the royal blood of Durin’s line was quite another. Fili and Kili might not be too harsh, but the rest of them were a variable Bilbo didn’t feel too keen on tackling. Bombur was only too happy to cook the rabbit that had been drained, less mess he’d said, so he might be lenient to Bilbo’s plight, but the Halfling wasn’t certain. Self-preservation was a well ingrained habit of being a respectable Hobbit, and even if he’d deviated quite well from that, he still had some habits that were hard to shake; worrying was one of them.

After a cold night where Bilbo finally slept comfortably, his full belly giving him the internal warmth to brave the night chill without piling on everything he’d carried, the company groggily got up and meandered around the camp at the crack of dawn in hopes of gathering their belongings so they could get back on the road.  Bilbo, in between the upheaval of camp, noticed that Thorin didn’t meet his eyes. That set the tone for the day’s trek.

Gandalf kept his peace, at least verbally, as they trudged along. His sparkling eyes and that half-smirk didn’t give Bilbo much peace however, so the Halfling ended up walking right behind Oin and Gloin, who were further up the procession this time around. They were bickering about weapon sizes, beards and other things that Bilbo could honestly say he could not relate to one bit. Sting still hung at the Halfling’s hips but beyond swinging it in a blind rage while his hands clawed up pale orc flesh he really didn’t use it much. He’d considered learning how to fight, properly, and not just the hasty survival lessons that happened when the company wasn’t too tired from trekking across vast amounts of varying landscape. It was kind of funny: he was older than most elves and still wielded a sword like a waif. Bilbo only backed off from the pair of dwarves when a weapon was drawn amidst the heated words. The Halfling was very happy with his head where it was, thank you. Luckily Thorin had broken out of his daze and came to break up the squabble. Ah. Family. He almost missed catching Lobelia trying to steal his old silverware. Through all their different shots of life both she and Otho, as he was now known, had been quite covetous. Bilbo chuckled to himself, maybe he didn’t miss the same attempts of carrion swooping his things over and over again. Lobelia was still an old one, older than Otho, and the two even produced a fauntling some hundred years ago. Lotho was no better than his parents, greedy from the day they set his feet on the ground.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Gandalf’s sudden reappearance startled Bilbo, and the Halfling thought to himself: he was on an adventure, he needed to be more mindful.   
“Thinking about family.” Bilbo said with a sort of disgusted fondness. Those two emotions were often mingled together when he thought about family. He loved his kinsmen but he was also disgusted by them.  Gandalf snorted amusedly.   
“You think Lobelia went straight for your silver when you left?” The old wizard commented. Bilbo looked at him in surprise.  
“I didn’t know you were aware of her raven tendencies?” The Halfling said with a smile.  
“Far and wide,” Gandalf said, “Remember, you complained a lot about that when you were Balbo and she was your… well, daughter.” Gandalf paused for a second. “Is she…?” Bilbo reeled back, horrified.  
“No, no, by all things sacred, no.” The Morgothian waved his hands around in slashing motions while his large feet were the only things that served to steady him during the wild flail.  Gandalf looked at him, questioningly.  
“We’re all family, we’ve been through so much together, but usually roles in the continued family, so to speak, are assigned according to when we are, well, renewed.” Bilbo explained after he calmed down. The unpleasant imagery of Lobelia actually being his daughter was horrifying enough to where he would be sneaking something out of Dwalin’s personal stash to be able to sleep. “Her parents died before the Shire, mine barely survived. It took us a while to adjust to different food options.” Bilbo looked a bit sorrowful. “But at least my parents built Bag-End before they passed. I have something to remember them by.” Bilbo’s face was covered in a self-deprecating smile “I’ve forgotten their faces, but I’m not going to forget who they were.” Gandalf nodded sagely at that proclamation. He’d seen many friends grow old and die, get sick and die, be killed… remembering who a person was served better than agonizing over how they looked.   
“What are the Morgothian funeral rights?” Gandalf suddenly asked. “I’m curious, Balbo’s funeral was more of a party.” He stroked his long beard as they walked forward.   
“A real funeral is much as you’d expect. We can’t eat each other so it’s fire, ashes and mourning.” Bilbo explained shortly. “We haven’t had many of those, luckily enough.” The Maia nodded again and the two continued to walk in silence. Bilbo was eternally glad those twinkling eyes had dimmed and that half-smirk were gone from Gandalf’s face. Who knew all you had to do to stop getting and ancient being sent by the Valar to stop being smug was mention funerals?

They’d trudged far and wide. Most of the landscape blurred together. Bilbo ended up just watching his feet, forcing his toenails to become clawed and then retracting them again just to break the monotony. He hadn’t used most of his abilities in years, so feeling how his feet changed, his nails changed, and his lips sat a bit different when his fangs were down, it was enough of a distraction to where he didn’t go mad with boredom.

Of course, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had to be right about something: boredom is nothing but trouble. The silence was broken when a great roar shook the trees around them and the pounding of heavy feat thundered closer. Bilbo elongated his claws and let his fangs drop down, he did not really care if his companions were disturbed by it, and he sensed something huge and unpleasant coming their way. Apparently, the rest of the dwarves and the wizard had sensed the same thing: weapons were out and staffs were at the ready. Through the forest broke the most terrifying thing Bilbo had seen in a long while, Azog included. A bear the size of five men, claws longer than Bilbo’s pinky finger, muzzle opened wide with fangs much more ferocious than the Halfling’s own and a coat so dark it was almost unreal. Bilbo prepared to charge the thing, so did the dwarves, but with speed that he didn’t look to possess Gandalf ran to the forefront of the group and made a shield with his staff that stopped the bear mid charge. It whimpered pitifully before getting up and readying another charge.

“Beorn!” Gandalf roared, old magic backing his voice as the sky around them darkened considerably. The bear stopped, wondering, before it started shifting. Its fur retracted and the painful sound of bones resetting themselves made Bilbo cringe, and the rest of the company was not doing much better. The muzzle shrunk and the teeth retracted and just watching that made the Halfling’s gums itch. Soon, where there once was a huge nightmare inspiring bear there now was a huge nightmare inspiring man. His unkempt, twig filled hair, wild beard and bushy eyebrows matched the color of the bear’s fur and he was broader at the shoulders than two dwarves would be sitting side by side. He was impressively naked and seemed unbothered by it in the nippy breeze. His sharp eyes landed on Bilbo  
“You bring a bloodsucker to my steps, Gandalf; I do not appreciate the gesture.” The voice was gravely and sounded affected by disuse. The Maia flinched a bit, he had forgotten how well Beorn could smell, and the smell of blood did not disappear easily when ingested.  Beorn was old too; he might even have met a Morgothian before.   
“He won’t cause any trouble.” The old wizard tried carefully.  
“That’s what they said about his father.” Beorn growled, clearly referring to Morgoth. “Let the abomination speak for himself.” Sharp brown eyes bored into Bilbo’s own with a ferocious hatred.   
“I’m not my maker.” Bilbo said, careful to keep his tone neutral. This beast would not go down as easily as Azog. “I haven’t fed on a sentient being for cen-” Beorn rocked back with a wild roar.  
“You speak of sentience as if you know it!” he looked around at the group wildly “Have any of you spoken with the creatures you hunt for sport and eat for food?” he looked back at Bilbo and growled “And I smell dwarven blood on you, you little liar!” Beorn’s teeth might not be the fangs of his bear form but his snarl was impressive nonetheless.   
“That was willingly given!” Bilbo snarled back, civility be damned, he was not going to downplay Thorin’s gracious gift to appease this beast. What Bilbo did not notice was how the rest of the dwarves looked at each other questioningly while Thorin stared right ahead, very pointedly, at the man-beast before them.   
“You think you could take me down, little bloodsucker?” Beorn growled at Bilbo, bowing down to stare at him at eye level, hands extended and clawed.   
“I ripped Azog the Defiler to shreds, you won’t be much different.” Bilbo was normally a docile little thing. He preferred words to violence but by trying to tarnish, disregard, the freely given gift that the dwarven king had so graciously bestowed, Beorn really ground the Halfling’s bones. The red rage that had filled Bilbo when he saw Thorin flung about as if a rag-doll by Azog built within and his more bestial features appeared in turn.  
“Little wretch!” Beorn charged at Bilbo and the Halfling reacted but Gandalf was quicker than both of them were, this time the shield didn’t protect as much as forced the two creatures apart with a twang that left both of them clutching their heads.  
“Cease and desist this very instant!” The voice was back, and the clouds had never really left. There was thunder rumbling in the distance. “Bilbo Baggins, Beorn, you’re acting like children the both of you!”   
“The wretch ate Clara and lied about his eating habits!” Beorn grumbled when he sat back up, his skull was pounding after two crashes into a magical barrier.  
“Wild beast would not know civility if it bit him in the rear. Questioning my eating habits, bloody idiot.” Bilbo groaned as he got back onto his feet. He had a forming bump on his forehead that matched the one forming on Beorn’s left cheek. “And who in the realms of middle earth is Clara?” Bilbo hissed, still trying to gain his balance.   
“My rabbit!” Beorn growled.  
“Oh my sweet rump, you berk! Rabbits are for eating!” Bilbo could not even dredge up the energy to feel mildly guilty about having eating someone’s pet. A headache was forming behind his eyes.   
“I had many good conversations with that rabbit, thank you!” Gandalf did not remember Beorn as a talkative one, but he guessed his barrier left little room for anything but shouting. It was a bit taxing but he guessed that the second the barrier dropped they would have a blood bath on their hands.   
“Are you daft, completely out of your oversized head you blooming clot pole?” Bilbo knew of creatures in tune with nature that avoided eating meat because of it but this was just bloody ridiculous. He was hungry, tired, and this big codger looked like he would be good for a pint or five.

The rest of the dwarves looked on, a bit fearfully (not that any of them would admit it) as the two feral creatures shouted abuse back and forth while Gandalf held the barrier between them. The Maia cleared his throat  
“We were going to ask for safe passage…” Beorn’s eyes honed in on the wizard instantly: he growled low. “Or not.” Gandalf said, somewhat nonchalantly.   
“Get that bloodsucker away from here.” Beorn said with a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat. “You have half a day to cross my lands, I will be watching, you” he stared at Bilbo again “will not eat another animal, I don’t care how _hungry_ you get!” The large man whirled around and shifted, the creaking and shifting of bones was much rapider than the first time around, it still made Bilbo itch. He ran off in a flurry.  
“We’ll need to get a move on,” Gandalf said tiredly. Well. That could have gone better.  



	5. And things get weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin laughs. Dwalin agrees. Weird assassination plots that might not bear fruit.

Dwalin stepped up to Bilbo and flashed his axe in his face.  
“So who’d you seduce into lettin’ ya drink their blood, lad?” The previously levelheaded dwarf looked positively furious. “I know it wasn’t me, or if it was, I don’t remember.” He readied the axe for a swing.  
“You said it was voluntary, who would do that?” Gloin said, clearly perturbed. His arms were crossed in aggressive pose but at least he didn’t have his weapon out. Fili and Kili didn’t say much, but they looked a little betrayed. They pulled away from Bilbo, and the Halfling wouldn’t lie, it stung a bit.  
“Not my secret to share. And I’m no seducer.” Bilbo said firmly. He’d lost friends in different situations before, granted, not like this, but he could weather it. Most of the dwarves snorted.  
“Aren’tcha going to use that barrier thingy on ‘im, Gandalf?” Bifur said, his boar spear firmly in hand. He’d started to trust the Shadow Walker but this, this was too much.  
“Now, Master Dwarf, one shouldn’t turn weapons against allies.” Gandalf explained patiently, slightly worried about the outcome of this entire debacle. The dwarves went into an uproar where there was much yelling, weapon waving, and general displeasure, and most all of it was directed at Bilbo.

“Shut up!” Thorin’s booming voice, in perfect synch all the dwarves stopped and stared at their leader. “He drank from me.” Thorin said, no traces of remorse in his voice. “It was, as he said, voluntary.” Bilbo had never been so glad for the fact that Thorin was sometimes able to string sentences together and not just grunt at things and hope they went away. Of course this made the rest of the company, sans Gandalf and Balin, start with the shouting and the weapon wielding again.  
“Idiots.” Thorin roared, he was back to one word statements. The dwarves quieted down again and looked at him, betrayed. “Ma mahabhyùr rukhs katakhigeri!”he growled at them, which made them look somewhat ashamed. Bilbo had no clue what he said but it must have been effective. “Tit for tat.” He concluded simply. “We walk. We have little time, that beast gave us half a day.”

The king deliberately turned his back on Bilbo, a sign of trust apparently if the scorned looks of the rest of the company were to be read correctly. Bilbo sighed and moved closer to Gandalf. He didn’t feel like walking alone amongst hostile dwarves – and hostile they were, even Ori, the _scribe_ , did a challenging motion with his head. They all waited, watching Bilbo, they were waiting for him to walk first, absolutely wonderful. Balin did something, however, that made some of the other dwarves’ eyebrows rise to their respective hairlines, he smiled at Bilbo and followed Thorin, weapons hanging at his side, untouched. Gandalf smiled and put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and together they followed Balin and Thorin. The rest of the dwarves fell in line quickly after that.  

Bilbo honestly wanted to go up to Thorin and explain that he didn’t have to do that. Didn’t have to admit that he freely gave his blood up. But that would mean talking to the irate dwarf, and perhaps risking the ire of the ones behind him. Bilbo, despite all his strengths, felt a little bit weak now. Having Gandalf walking beside him and Balin in front of him in a show of support helped. Plus, talking to Thorin on a good day was difficult, talking to him now would probably be worse than facing down the dragon that awaited them at the end of this trip.

The entire entourage slowly made their way across Beorn’s lands in silence. Sometimes Bilbo would catch a glimpse of a large bear out of the corner of his eyes. A rustle of the leaves behind them. The Halfling was almost tempted to find the nearest animal and rip it open, not even to feed, just rip it open for the sheer hell of it, just to see what that big oaf would do. The only thing that held him back was the fact that the company had to go on, and if that large lug of a shifter hurt any of the dwarves (Bilbo didn’t even entertain that Gandalf would do anything but shield himself) then their trek would be set back days, maybe even weeks, and that was something he didn’t feel like being responsible for. They had made good time, him healing Thorin and all, but he suspected that none of the other dwarves would accept his method of healing after they were told of Thorin’s gift.

Step by step they left Beorn’s lands behind, as they got closer to the boarders Beorn had set the less they saw of the wretched lug. Bilbo realized, logically, that Beorn wanted to protect his friends and was not much of a social being in the first place, but being hungry, tired and so very angry, mostly due to said hunger, did little for Bilbo’s logical thinking. He also reflected on the fact that calling a huge shifter names was not the best thing to do, but having been called bloodsucker _, bloodsucker_ ,  honestly, was even worse than being called Shadow Walker. Bloodsucker indeed. Just thinking about the moniker made Bilbo seethe, which in turn made his more bestial features sneak into his appearance.

A not-so-soft handed thwack across Bilbo’s head made the Halfling look around bewildered.  
“Are we lost in thought, Master Baggins?” The somewhat amused voice of Gandalf floated through the air.   
“You… you slapped me across the head!” Bilbo wasn’t sure if he wanted to feel shocked that it was _Gandalf_ , feel like he was being treated like a child, being shocked that it was _Gandalf_ … Gandalf, honestly.  
“You looked ready to commit murder.” Gandalf said airily, as if he hadn’t just thumped a Morgothian on the head. The wizard hummed to himself and walked up to Thorin; they were probably going to discuss the merits of glowering, grumbling and being vague. Bilbo reckoned that he’d probably looked like a little demon, considering how hungry-angry-hungry he was getting. An old saying went something like: low on blood, low on patience. Bilbo finally understood what that meant. In all his life, in all his comfortable life, being a respectable Hobbit, he’d never really gone hungry, beyond that really bad bout of sickness, but that was remedied shortly after. Now he had to starve himself to keep his companions safe – he hadn’t fed since Thorin let him have what he craved. Bilbo had killed exactly one elf, somewhat by accident, in his long life, and the taste of that blood took a long time to get away from, took a long time to be able to abstain from (Elrond still laughed when he saw Bilbo as the little creature had tried to eat him when they first met). Thorin, however, tasted so much better. His blood was everything Bilbo could ever imagine the finest of foods would taste for regular folks. It was so rich, so nourishing. He wanted more, so much more. None of the other dwarves that had accidentally stumbled into the Shire tasted like this. He realized that he might have eaten some of the company’s ancestors and smiled guiltily to himself – it wasn’t the best dinner conversation topic he’d ever thought of. _Heh_ , dinner. When you walked Arda for so long you learned to amuse yourself.

“You’re quite good at holding conversations with yourself, Master Baggins” Balin’s gentle voice cut through Bilbo’s amusement, but the feeling didn’t dissipate. “Gold for your thoughts?” The older dwarf sung, as if he were speaking to a dwarfling.  
“Ah, Master Balin, these thoughts would best be kept secret. I have disturbed the company enough for the past few days, yes?” Balin blinked a bit at the hobbit’s response and cocked his head to the side.  
“I’ve heard and seen many things, Master Bilbo, and I should think I can handle this as well.” Balin said with a firm tone of voice tinged with a curiosity stemming from a life of learning.  
“Have you ever had dwarves go mysteriously go missing, as you can remember, in the area of the shire?” Bilbo decided that it was probably the best opportunity he had to breach a subject like this, Balin was more level-headed than his compatriots. The white haired dwarf shook his head: no.  
“I was thinking if I might have eaten one of your ancestors.” Bilbo imparted, with a straight face. Bilbo braced himself for the scorn, the cold shoulder, perhaps a strongly-worded line in Khuzdul, what the Halfling didn’t expect was the old dwarf bowing over, laughing so hard he seemed to hold his gut so it wouldn’t fall off. Bilbo kept staring at Balin, who at this point had stopped walking completely. The rest of the company had stopped as well, looking at Balin as if he’d grown a second head. After what seemed like ages of staring between the non-laughing companions Balin seemed to straighten back up, he even wiped a few tears from the corner of his eyes.  
“I wish you’d eaten _my_ great aunt, lad.” Balin said airily as he breezed by the stunned Hobbit.  
“Aunt Kerdesh?” Dwalin questioned from the back.  
“Blunt enough for the entire family.” Balin called back, over his shoulder. Dwalin surprised Bilbo even more by cracking a smile. The rest of the company seemed a bit wary after that exchange but the white haired dwarf just smiled before placing his wizened hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.  
“I am not a fool, Master Baggins, and I’d prefer you’d not take me for one.” With that somewhat cryptic parting statement, Balin carried on as if nothing had happened. Bilbo looked back at the rest of the company and shrugged. Ori smiled, Nori gave one of those shifty smirks he was prone to, and Dori, ever the mother hen, grabbed them both by the shoulders. Dwalin walked up to the Hobbit and smiled  
“She already gave us five cousins; if the harridan went missing I don’t think people would mind.” Bilbo balked a bit.  
“Isn’t it worse for the children if she’s gone?” He was very much fond of children, thank-you-very-much, and not in the dinner capacity.  
“Not really,” Dwalin said with a grim set of his lips before he trudged on up to his brother. Bilbo shrugged.

“Are we done yet?” Thorin’s voice cut through the apparent distraction with ease. He was even further up from Bilbo and looked as if they were personally responsible for Smaug being born.  Bilbo tried to look apologetic, as his comment was what had started all of it, but he just couldn’t. He hoisted his pack further up on his shoulders and sent a sour look Thorin’s way: delicious or no that dwarf needed an attitude adjustment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: “Ma mahabhyùr rukhs katakhigeri» Literally means do not teach an orc to stink foguratively means “Think before you act/do not teach the master” Found at and you are probably all thinking, well, they aren’t teaching the master anything, yes? WELL who tried to draw weapons at Bilbo the first time around? Exactly. In that sentence Thorin admitted he was the master of rash conclusions and basically told his crew not to do the same shit. Thanks. http://www.scribd.com/doc/109354767/neo-Khuzdul-Common-Sayings-v1
> 
> I AM SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG! SCHOOL! WORK! ALL THE THINGS! HUMBLY FORGIVE ME! ... and this chapter kind of sucked and was kind of a filler and Balin is kind of OOC BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY FORGIVE ME. Please?


	6. Introductions and clarifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life offers the most unexpected of surprises.

Bilbo kept his gaze firmly planted on the backs of Balin, Dwalin, Gandalf and Thorin as they trudged through the same-old, same-old that was Beorn’s territory. The Morgothian still did not get what was so special about the place that made the mangy mutt so mad about him hunting here: the Shire was much prettier in his opinion. They were about to reach the edge of said same-old, same old when Beorn appeared again. The dwarves reached for their weapons as the big bear came crashing through the bush. Dwalin, who always had at least one weapon out, looked smugly at the rest of the dwarves before focusing his gaze on the huge bear in front of them. Beorn quickly changed into his humanoid form and stood in front of the company, looking at Bilbo intently.  
  
“Bilbo has not hunted, and neither have we.” Gandalf said as he moved to step between the company and Beorn, who looked like he was more uncomfortable than Bilbo was, and the Morgothian was hungry, _very_ hungry.   
“You have done no wrong.” Beorn ground out reluctantly, he shuffled his feet, and looked very much like an overgrown child. “At least not since last we spoke.” Bilbo snorted and extended his claws – he was not in the mood for dealing with a grumpy shape-shifter.  
“Then why have you stopped us?” Gandalf, who had a foot in both camps, so to speak, tried to keep his voice level. Diplomacy was still his weapon of choice when mediating between possible allies.

Beorn looked away, dark hair falling in front of his face, his feet shuffled some more and his hands were twisting together.   
“I came…” The large man ground out the words, but it seemed like they pained him greatly. “I came to…” Beorn snarled a bit and, turned around, as if to leave. A soft clearing of the throat stopped him. A small, cloaked figure stepped out from his shadow, how it had gotten there was anybody’s guess. “I came to apologize” Beorn forced out between clenched teeth after staring at the cloaked being with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Bilbo loved the fact that he had a very good memory – Gandalf’s face was worth the entire Erebor treasure twice over. Of course, he was charged for the wondrous sight by a staff digging into his side and a pointed look from not only Gandalf but Balin as well. White haired wizened bastards: he knew what they wanted.   
“I… apologize as well.” The words hurt to force out and if his fangs made an appearance or two in the short time it took for Bilbo to grind them out no one said a thing. The wizened bastards kept looking at him. By the maker, this was not what he’d signed up for. “Sorry about your… bunny” Bilbo tried his hardest to keep the distaste out of his voice but when Beorn snarled he realized he didn’t manage all that well.   
“Clara…” the large man ground out. The small cloaked figure kicked him in the shins.  
“Clara.” Bilbo repeated and dodged another shove from Gandalf’s staff.

The Morgothian and the shape-shifter kept staring each other down while the dwarves and the wizard looked on warily: this was an unexpected situation to say the least. Then a waft of scent hit Bilbo’s nose, a scent of blood, rot, and _home_. More familiar than all the tea spices lining the racks of Bag-End put together.   
“De-cloak yourself.” Bilbo ordered the small figure as he shifted his gaze from Beorn to the little bundle of cloth that had been silent throughout the entire exchange.  
“Worry not, it’s a wee child!” Gloin said, his eyes shining. Bilbo snarled at the dwarf, which made the lug back off  
“That is no child!” Bilbo growled, “De-cloak yourself!” His fangs extended and his claws sharpened.

The cloaked figure shook its head, as if amused, and pulled the hood down to reveal familiar honey colored curls, blue eyes, a round nose and the same stiff upper lip Bilbo had seen in the mirror every morning, it was a woman, a hobbit woman. She was smiling.  
“Yarasha!” Bilbo breathed, his bestial features disappeared, and he moved towards the woman. With a burst of speed, he was within arm’s reach of her and before anyone could react, he pulled her into a strong embrace. She smiled and wrapped her arms around Bilbo and whispered in a soft voice.

“Could anyone please tell me what’s going on here?” Despite the wording, Thorin’s request was anything but polite, his voice had started at a demanding level but ended in a roar that made everyone but Gandalf and Beorn cringe. The two embracing Hobbits paid the irate dwarven king no mind as they clung to each other and whispered in words that no one could hope to comprehend. Even Gandalf, for all his worldly nature, looked curious – especially since the language sounded like Black Speech, but not similar enough to be mutually intelligible. The female looked peaceful, and the set of Bilbo’s shoulders had relaxed considerably. Born cleared his throat and looked at the two, somewhat uncomfortably.

The woman let go of Bilbo, cupped his face in her tiny hands, and spoke some more before her gaze narrowed and she rounded on Beorn like a vengeful Nazgûl.   
“You called him a bloodsucker, Beorn!” Her voice was shrill and painful. “After all this time!” She seemed shocked, hurt “I’ve been helping you hunt bandits and orcs in these areas for years and the first thing you do when you meet one of my kin is call him a bloodsucker?” The tiny woman advanced on Beorn, who, to everyone’s surprise, kept backing off with a wild look of terror in his eyes. All the dwarves, even Thorin, watched the exchange in complete and utter silence. Even the steps they took backwards were taken with the utmost care.   
“He ate Clara!” Beorn tried to defend himself while moving backwards as the irate little creature advanced.   
“Clara was sick and set to die within the next month anyway!” The woman roared. Bilbo realized that he must have been extremely hungry; he did not even taste the sickness of the rabbit.   
“I have done you nothing but good, I even avoided your fancy animals, I’ve kept this land clean of orc-filth, bandits, raiders and anyone else wishing harm and this is how you repay me?” Her fangs seemed longer than the ones Bilbo had and as she was shouting, they kept catching on her lips allowing blood to pearl on her moving skin, making her look even more terrifying. Bilbo looked unbearably smug, but only for a moment, she rounded on him next.  
“And you, sharkuu,” Gandalf recognized the word as meaning old man in Black Speech, Bilbo squawked  
“Hey, not fair! We were minutes apart!” The dwarves looked even more confused,   
“Kranklob taught you better than this!” She spat “Greeting a potential host, no matter how uncouth,” she looked balefully back at Beorn who shrunk in on himself “With anything but respectability! Pah!” She exclaimed, “You should have stayed a Took!”   
“It was my turn to live in Hobbiton! I even got Bag-End back!” Bilbo shouted. The woman’s face softened a bit.  
“Was everything as I left it?” She questioned.  
“Down to the last doily.” Bilbo answered, “Even if _certain_ dwarves thought they were poorly made dish-towels.” He glared at one hat bearing dwarf in particular who shrunk in on himself in the same manner Beorn had done earlier. The woman scoffed.  
“It’s crochet!” She said and looked to the skies in a manner that suggested that most creatures in middle-earth were unworthy peasants, dwarven kings included.   
“I know; that’s what I said!” Bilbo chimed in, happily basking in the company of someone who knew good handcrafts when they saw it.

“Anyway,” The woman spoke with a certain authority that made Thorin grumble. “Beorn, you go back and fetch whatever supplies we have and give to this gaggle of dwarves as an apology for being a clot-pole and as an attempt to get back into my good graces” Most of the dwarves resented being referred to as a gaggle but wisely kept their peace.   
“Tall grey clad person, you organize camp; this spot is as safe as anywhere” Gandalf looked quite shocked at being ordered about like an apprentice doing his first lessons. “Broody dwarf with the blue eyes, you take first shift!” She ordered Thorin, who looked like he was about to have an apoplectic fit, Gandalf stopped Thorin from doing anything rash by planting his staff in front of him. The King grumbled.   
“You,” She pointed at Bilbo “We’re going hunting, they’ve been starving you.” Bilbo held his hands up in a silent protest but before he could stutter out a few defending phrases Bombur got involved.  
“I’m the cook and I can assure you that the Hobbit has gotten his fair share!” the rotund dwarf paled three shades when the small woman rounded on him:   
“He is skin and bones; I could hear his joints creak as I hugged him! It’s a wonder he hasn’t slaughtered you all!” The dwarves, especially the loud protestors that had made themselves known after Thorin’s revelation, looked guilty. “Mahal must have carved you from the biggest, dumbest rock he could find!” The female sneered at Bombur before she grasped to take Bilbo’s arm and take him away. The ‘Ur brothers looked balefully at the small creature, and Bilbo did too.

  
“Apologize.” Bilbo said; his back straightened as he continued, “What did you say about Kranklob, Yarasha, that she taught us to treat our hosts with respect?” Bilbo’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  
“Yeresh…” She started to say something but Bilbo cut her off:   
“Don’t you _dare_ ‘Yeresh’ me! Bombur has done very well with what he’s had and they didn’t _know_ when we even started this quest!” Now it was Bilbo’s turn to be upset. The ‘Ur brothers looked happily at Bilbo – he was back in their good graces, not that he’d ever left, not completely.   
“You fed a couple of days ago, wasn’t that enough?” Thorin’s questioning voice cut through the building murmur.  
“Not with this level of exertion, no.” Bilbo answered, he looked away. Thorin’s voice was doing funny things to his brain.   
“Bilbo, you should have told me.” The dwarf king said, as he stepped towards the Morgothian. Everyone else looked on in silence “I owe you my life, it’s the least I could do.” Confusticate and bebother dwarves and their dangerous sense of honor.   
“If I keep feeding on you I’ll take the life I fought to save.” The Hobbit said exasperatedly. The hobbit lass looked at Thorin before looking at Bilbo.  
“Serena?” She questioned, with a grin on her face. Bilbo looked taken aback for a second but then he looked at Beorn and back to the other Morgothian  
“Serena?” He asked, smiling in the same impish way she had done just moments ago.   
“Yes.” She mulishly answered and looked at Bilbo beseechingly. Bilbo just nodded and they both seemed to come to an understanding that none of the others comprehended. Both the Hobbits smiled and linked their arms.

“I believe I owe you an apology, Master Dwarf,” She bowed in Bombur’s direction. The rotund dwarf nodded back, as did Bifur and Bofur. “Talk aside, Beorn, go get the supplies.” The shifter nodded before transforming into his hulking bear shape and speeding off. “You stay here, we’re going hunting, there were some bandits camped out a few leagues from here, we’ll be back by nightfall.” She said, both the Morgothians moved to leave but another voice cut in.  
“Excuse me ma’am” It was Balin “But who exactly are you?” The lass moved to answer but Bilbo beat her to it.   
“I am so sorry, I completely forgot!” Bilbo seemed embarrassed “Everyone: this is Yarasha, my sister!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, she is an OC, NO she will not be a major character, I just wanted to see Beorn squirm for the bloodsucker comment. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. 
> 
> As to what the words "serena" mean: serena was my way of twisting the word serenade because the blood of a serena will sound like the sweetest serenade to a Morgothian, and a Morgothian will do most anything to protect their serena to have a continued supply of their 'essence' so to speak... more detail in next chapter if I can fit it in. I need more morgothian lore xD


	7. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lions, wargs, oliphaunts and other creatures can be as mighty as they please - if the mouse is a Morgothian they are still up a large body of excrement in an ancient flotation device without any means of propulsion.

“So, brother dearest, how do you want to do this?” Yarasha asked, pulling at her brothers tattered sleeves.  
“Can we do a quick kreshl? I don’t feel up to kraaah right now.” Bilbo looked a bit bashful, but no one but his sister seemed to understand anything. She smiled and hugged him.  
“Of course, starving as you are I was about to suggest kreshl myself!” He smiled gratefully at that proclamation before he linked his arm with hers and they turned to leave. A soft clearing of the throat made them pause, and of course, it had to be Balin.  
“If you don’t mind me, Master Bilbo and Miss… Baggins?” He seemed at a loss at how to address Yarasha as there was no familiarity there.  
“Yarasha is fine, Master Dwarf.” She replied. “Did you want something?” Her voice had a slight edge to it – she hadn’t hunted with one of her own in forever and joy be that this one was her brother and she wanted to get this ball rolling.  
“Would you mind terribly if I asked what the meanings of those terms is?” Balin, ever the scholar, looked on with concealed hopefulness while Ori perked up and looked like a curious rodent from where he stood beside Dwalin. Dori tried to shuffle Ori back to his side, for safety reasons of course, but they were all surprised that he was glaring at Dwalin and not the two Morgothians, which would have been more usual.  
“You mean kreshl and kraaah?” Yarasha was getting antsy.  
“Precisely.” Balin nodded while Ori leaned silently forward, as if it would allow him to hear better.  
“Kreshl is the easiest way to hunt, we use tricks and deceit to lure our prey into a lull and then we strike before they can even comprehend it, kraaah is the more… direct approach.” Yarasha said, before pausing. “I would have thought my brother here would have explained this to you, he said that he’d done this before?” She looked over the company but they looked like expecting schoolchildren waiting for their first tutoring session. Even the grumpy one looked curious, though the scowl he tried to hide it with was quite impressive. Bilbo’s serena was an odd one.  
“No, no he didn’t. He just said he needed to… well… hunt.” Bofur piped up.  
“Well, that was as good of an explanation as any.” She said quite sarcastically to her brother before she turned to the group once more “But it does succinctly sum up the need of the moment, we shall take our leave. Don’t anger the big yin when I’m not around to pull his ears for being a stubborn oaf.” She chortled a bit at the thought of her chastised Serena before she started guiding her brother along.

Before Bilbo could even think about giving a parting remark Yarasha had firmly taken his person and guided him quickly from the well-meaning group whose wellbeing she refused to be responsible for if she hungered any longer. The other Morgothian sputtered a bit but his own body betrayed his huff by releasing a resounding growl from the abdominal area. _Just as well_ , thought Yarasha, her brother had always been a bit softer around the edges than her and he would starve himself to keep those dwarves happy, wouldn’t he? Bah. She understood, partially, since his Serena was a part of the group, but it was getting to the point of ridiculous.

Yarasha had plotted the bandit’s movements throughout their lands and she had a fairly good estimate of where they would camp for the night, if they weren’t complete morons, that is, as there were few places that were easily defensible on the route the gaggle of humans had selected. There was no smell of dwarf or half-elf amongst them, something Yarasha regretted – out of all the bipedal races in Middle Earth the race of man tasted the weirdest. It probably had something to do with their shifting diet. Dwarves and Elves usually stuck with what they could hunt or farm around their own settlements while humans, especially travelers and vagrants, would taste of all the things they had eaten and places they had been. It was not necessarily a bad thing, but it did get confusing for the senses and made it harder to track the whereabouts of potential loose ends if they happened to off some noble or someone that people would actually miss. Basic hunting skills were not what most people thought, not in the case of Morgothians anyhow, as they learned primarily: pick the ones that people will gladly see gone or the ones that will not be missed. Less investigation and suspicion that way. 

The siblings trekked along in the darkness as clouds started gathering in misty clumps in front of the moon, none of them darkened with the threat of rain. It did not bother either of the Morgothians overmuch as they were as accustomed to seeing in the dark as they was in the light, it just took their eyes time to adjust to the change. It was one of the reasons why many ‘hobbits’ were seen out on their porches smoking their pipes or doing their hobbies in the hours the sun set – old habits die hard and Morgothians die even harder. They did not even bother to be silent, it was honestly too troublesome to do the entire stealth routine when they were not planning to ambush the bandits in the traditional sense anyway. Of course, plans sometimes failed, if the rag-tag band of men were of the unusually cruel sort they would not care that the siblings posed as children. That was always a log in the cartwheels. There was also a chance that one or two of them that had met a hobbit; then they would have to change their approach from the childish demeanor most Morgothians perfected in the face of kreshl and to something more adult. They felt pumped for the hunt, and were ready to tear into anything that moved, so contingency plan would probably go off without too much ado – very few tall folk had escaped a Morgothian and no one thus far had lived to tell the tale.

The leagues passed by in a rather short time, if one looked at the legs of the traversers: long legs made up for much in movement speed in the regular world of the tall folk, but Morgothian had speed as their advantage, and even at a sedate meander a Morgothian could keep up with a jogging man. It had been absolutely hellish for the first ‘Hobbits’ to cultivate a pace that reflected their stature as the tall folk would become too suspicious if such small creatures could traverse great distances as fast as a Morgothian was wont to do.

Soon the scent of sword-oil, campfires, and leather teased their nostrils, and even better – the scent of sweat, stale blood, and _food_. Bilbo and Yarasha stopped for a few moments, about a quarter mile downwind from the camp, and started their preparations – they had to look the parts after all. Yeresh dug out four bag like leather constructions that they put around their feet – they would look like over-sized shoe substitutes, it was an old trick that garnered much sympathy and if they played up their feet as deformities and claimed that their families abandoned them – even better. It did hurt the Morgothian pride to speak of their lovely feet as such, but sacrifices must be made for easy meals, and pride always came before the downfall, so it was honestly win-win. Bilbo looked grumpy while Yarasha fastened the top strings of the shoe like contraptions around his ankles. She giggled at her brother and smoothened out his frown with her hands.  
“Remember, brother, children do not frown like they have the weight of the world on their shoulders.” Yarasha was giddy with anticipation.  
“Do children frown when their ever wonderful feet are encased in uncomfortable sacks?” Bilbo snarked back with his arms crossed.  
“Remember the old hunting tricks, brother dear.” Yarasha’s smile was too feral for her face and she ended up looking somewhat strange. Bilbo huffed a bit, as a last token resistance, before his face broke into a smile that mirrored his sisters – it was just as ill befitting. He had missed this; it had been many years since he had done anything like this. _Too many_ , something dark in his mind whispered.

Yarasha pulled a roll of bandages out of her skirts (hidden pockets were darn useful), and handed her brother the bundle.  
“Help me bind my breasts, Bilbo dear, no child should be as well-endowed as this.” Yarasha wiggled out of her top garments and let them pool around her waist which left her torso bare. Bilbo snorted as he started his task with practiced efficiency. He noted two things: his disguise skills had not deteriorated overmuch and the second: neither had his sister’s ego. If anything, it had grown.

“Get dressed, you terror.” Bilbo said good-naturedly as he finished securing the bandage – it would hold long enough for them to ensnare the poor sods. Children indeed. He never knew why this type of hunt amused him so.  
“I’m the terror?” Yarasha snorted wildly as she wiggled back into her upper garments. “I wasn’t the one who broke mother’s fine china” The clothing fit was a bit awkward after the binding and enforced the image of a lost child with too big clothes. Her tattered hems, _wouldn’t mother roll in her grave if she saw those_ , were also a big help.  
“Good to go?” Bilbo asked - Yarasha nodded.

Bilbo stepped forward and clasped her hands in his as they leaned towards each other, their hoods were pulled up, and they ever so slowly walked towards the sentries dotted around the camp perimeter. Yarasha even made a few stumbling gestures, bumping into Bilbo deliberately, and knocking him off balance. They stumbled, mumbled, and whimpered their way towards the nearest guard posting and hoped the ungodly racket they were making would attract some attention – it would not do for the sentries to become suspicious that a pair of children were able to sneak up on them.

“Who goes?” A sharp voice broke the night silence. _Well_ , apparently these men were not _that_ dull.  
“Help s-sir, please help.” Yarasha had pitched her voice at least an octave higher and her vocal chords trembled with the strain, but it did sound like she was a frightened child. Bilbo could barely hide his laughter; he hid his grinning face in his sister’s shoulder, his attempts at stifling his laughter looking like the shivers of fear to an outsider. A sword was pointed at them.  
“Who are- by the sacred-” The sword was quickly re-sheathed as a scruffy looking man crouched down before them. “You are children!” the man sounded shocked. _Ah, they are softhearted bandits then, all the better for us,_ Bilbo thought.    
“We’re s-so hungry, please sir.” Bilbo decided to follow the precedent his sister had set – utter respect for his elders. Elders _, hah_ , the thought made him snort. His voice was also pitched much higher than his usual timbre, and he was sure he felt it all the way down to his scrotum – he never studied the bodies of his kin beyond the very basics, but he was sure he’d remember it if his vocal chords were directly attached to his nether region. 

The rugged man’s face softened and he held out a gentle hand for either of the children to grasp. They did.  
“We’ve got a couple of children here.” He called into the camp as he brought them into the warm circle made by the highly stoked campfire.  
“Young’ins?” A burly man asked, he was cleaning a shoddily made axe – perhaps a repurposed woodcutter’s tool.  
“Yeah, they just stumbled down the road.” Bilbo and Yarasha turned inwards to each other, trying their best to stifle their giggles the small sounds they accidentally let escape sounded more like chocked sobs than interrupted laughter and their shaking shoulders were unintentionally a perfect portrayal of quivering in fear. They had the attention of the entire camp. They sensed nine men and two sleeping women.  
“Let go’ ‘o ‘em ya big lout,” the man with the shoddy axe said “Caeanna ya see they be scared?” Yarasha collapsed into Bilbo trying to hold her peals of laughter in, that unintentional move brought them that much more sympathy.  
“Please – food, sir!” Bilbo managed to choke out as he busied himself with untangling Yarasha from his person. His stunted speech was again taken as fearful.  
“O’course, o’course.” The big axe man boomed. “Grotto, wake up Belinda and Amanda, yeah, they’ll wanna be seeing this.” The big axe man, he seemed like the leader, gestured for a bowl of whatever foulness that was cooking over the campfire to be brought to the two ‘children’.    
“come over here, ya little rascals.” The big axe-man patted the huge log he was sitting on. “Ol’ Togrin will take care ‘o ye.” The two Morgothians stumbled their way over to their ‘savior’ and sat down on the very far edge of the log, still huddled together. ¨

They observed the camp with the bowl of rancid food clutched between them. The open acceptance by the apparent leader of this rag-tag band did not seem to cause much trouble between the other men – good, then they would not spill blood before Bilbo, and Yarasha could drink it.  
“Skittish, ey?” The big man asked with a grin on his face. There was stew in his beard and other miscellany between his teeth. Bilbo and Yarasha huddled together and dipped their fingers in the tepid stew and ate it slowly – these men would soon wash away the rancid taste with their blood, but they had to bide their time.

“Cart said there were children in camp?” A wildly redheaded woman with tattered leather armor entered the camp circle. She spotted them huddled on the same log as her chief. Yarasha was busy wondering what sort of inbred idiot named their child after a contraption made to lug things around in.  
“Right ‘ere” Said the axe man, Togrin, he gestured gently towards the shaking twosome at the other end of his log.  
“Why would there be children out here?” the red head asked, a slight tinge of suspicion tinged her voice. Bilbo quickly locked eyes with Yarasha as he took of his hood, the foul stew staining the fabric.  
“W-we were left, miss.” Bilbo’s voice managed to hold on to the high pitch, barely. The woman’s eyes softened.  
“Why would anyone leave their children?” She asked the two. Yarasha molded her face into a mask of shame and sorrow. Bilbo followed suit.  
“Mama said we were bad children.” He hiccupped as Yarasha had stealthily elbowed him in the stomach. Right, he needed to remember to pitch his voice. Confusticate and bebother. If only he had the strength for a kraaah, it was quicker but much more strenuous.  
“Bad children?” The woman echoed while she tilted her head. Togrin watched the exchange with a pinched look on his face. Bilbo tapped his feet around drawing attention to their size.  
“Mama said we were born wrong.” This time he managed the tinny voice quite well. The entire camp of people quieted down at that proclamation. Apparently, the bandits did not know how to respond to that.

Everyone looked away from the two ‘children’ awkwardly and that moment of distraction afforded Yarasha a looksee into her copious amounts of hidden pockets.  
“This is taking too long.” She whispered. Bilbo could smell her plan so he nodded. She had pulled out some herbs that would, when burned, turn the fire smoke into a mild sedative and paralytic. Bilbo nodded empathically. Kreshl was fine, but it would not do to become too attached to their dinner. Not that guilt necessarily was a problem, especially when they looked around camp and saw eclectic collections of grain sacks an even more eclectic selection of mounts – none of the steeds could have come from the same breeder and some looked too fine for people who wore tattered leather armor.

Something caught Bilbo’s eyes – it was a doll jammed between two sacks of feed for the mounts, one marked with the symbol of the Rohirrim, the other with the mark of a lesser hold affiliated with Gondor. Bilbo pretended to get shakily on his feet and stumbled over to the doll – a homemade little thing with odd stitching.   
“Lookie here, sister, they have toys!” Bilbo pretended to lighten up and held up the little thing to Yarasha, who immediately noticed the implications and stealthily packed her pouch of herbs away – toys, no children visible, where were they? Togrin looked uncomfortable.  
“Oh, please Mr. Togrin, please, can I play with it?” Yarasha said in that very well faked falsetto. The brute’s shoulders sagged a bit, as if they had been cut off from strings before he nodded with a grin on his face. Yarasha took the toy, reverently, and held it close to her face in a show of gratitude when she was in reality scenting it. The smell of a child, female, young, clung to the doll in bare traces – someone had carried this doll around everywhere, it was separated from its scent marker at the maximum a week ago. There were none matching that smell in the camp.  
“Oh, thank you Mr. Togrin,” Bilbo stage whispered “Mama always said toys weren’t for bad girls.” There was a smug twitch under Togrin’s moustache, and Bilbo barely caught it.

“Can we play?” Yarasha asked innocently, still clutching the toy. Both Morgothians were scouting the camp for signs of any children. The toy could not be a memorabilia – it would have been better taken care of by the bereft parent. Togrin grunted and motioned for the blonde woman to come forth.  
“Isn’t it a bit late, dear ones?” She said with a deceptively calm voice, “How about you take that doll with you in the bedroll over here, and we play tomorrow, hm?” She said, while gaining on Yarasha with her palms turned outward in a friendly gesture. “We’ll just make you some tea and put you right to bed.”

The red headed woman stepped forth.  
“You’ve eaten some, why not have some Simbelmynë tea?” Simbelmynë was a white flower that grew across Rohan, especially on burial mounds, and induced a heavy sleep when prepared right. Both Bilbo and Yarasha recognized the implications – the vagrants wanted them heavily asleep.  
“That would be great, miss!” Bilbo said as he accepted a tea-cup that suddenly appeared at his right, they were too well prepared, Simbelmynë tea took hours to make but could be re-heated with the same effects. Luckily, Morgothians were immune. Bilbo took a sip – despite the sleeping qualities of the brew, it was actually quite excellent.  
“Is good, sister!” Bilbo said encouragingly. He shared his cup with Yarasha who accepted with a sly smile. She drank as well – it seemed they both liked the flavor. They could feel the herbs attempting to lull them to sleep, but the Morgothian blood overpowered the lulling sensation quite easily. Togrin suddenly stood up, knocked the cup out of Bilbo’s hands, and tried to grab him by the shoulders. The large man reached for a rope hung on his belt. Yarasha locked eyes with Bilbo – these bastards, no matter the inconvenience, deserved a screaming, painful, terrorizing death. They were slavers. Slavers who most likely dumped the children they took on seedier farms as a form of “adoption” of cheap labor. Slaves were illegal, adopted children were a blessing.

 

Bilbo quickly got his bearings and pulled the grown man down with a strength someone his size should not possess. He trusted Yarasha to run interference with the eight other slavers and incapacitate them until they were ready to dine, his fangs dropped down and before ‘Ol’ Togrin’ could even consider retaliating Bilbo moved to break both his arms at record speed before he lunged forward and sank his teeth into the hairy neck of the burly man. He could hear Yarasha felling the others in the background but soon the blood overwhelmed him and Bilbo drank fat slobbering gulps of the surprisingly tasty liquid. Vagrants usually never ate that well. _The adoption business must be paying well -_ the Morgothian thought, and sunk his teeth in deeper out of spite. Togrin gurgled and coughed up blood, which landed in Bilbo’s hair. In his haste to dig into the meal Bilbo had ripped through to the esophagus – it always made for extra messy eating. The Morgothian had fed enough to join the fray – finishing Old Togrin could wait.

 

Yarasha had already dispatched the two women, she had broken the bones in their limbs without breaking the skin, they were both whimpering alongside the sentry who had guided them into camp who had suffered the same fate. Four down, five to go. Yarasha was dealing with three of them. Time to track down the remaining two.

 

Bilbo dropped down on all fours, the familiar sensation of his claws extending tingling through his limbs. He sprang into action but knocking out one of the people that were trying to catch his sister off guard, five down, before he started sniffing out the two that had proved themselves too cowardly to fight. Blood colored Bilbo’s vision and he could clearly scent two trails that had hastily stumbled from camp, mere seconds away. He rushed into the underbrush quick as a mouse – the ones that used the metaphors about swamp rats and wargs had never faced a Morgothian.

 

There. A shape. Bilbo quickly recognized one of the two missing sentry guards and struck quickly and silently. He thought back to their decision to make this hunt a kreshl and he was pleased it turned out to be a kraaah, despite the roundabout way it happened. There was very little that beat taking down a tall one by discretely slicing all the major tendons in less than a second and watching the poor sod drop like a sack of potatoes.  Slavers were the worst. Morgothians might come from evil itself but at least they respected the sanctity of children. Another rustle in the leaves notified Bilbo that his second target was close by – he looked towards the noise and took a deep whiff _of decaying leaves, fresh sap, blood, fear, fear, fear, soil, sweat_ , and charged after the last of the stragglers – he was sure Yarasha had dealt with her two targets. His sister might be many things, but she was never a slouch in a fight.

 

Bilbo might not have studied his own race extensively, but like any hunter, his prey had gotten his full attention. The Morgothian swiftly gained on the sniveling man who had even abandoned his sword in his ungainful sprint into the darkness. Snick, pectoralis major, left, disabled. Snick, pectoralis major, right, disabled. His claws cut through the skin and ripped through the two tendons that helped control arm movement in a split second. Bilbo hadn’t stopped the man deliberately but the pain of running with his injured arms flopping about like useless sausages had the man dropping to his knees.  
“So. Slavers.” Bilbo said with an air of disgust. The man looked angry for a split second and a retort seemed to be forming on his tongue but Bilbo shoved at his torso forcing the man forward and exposing the back of his knees. Bilbo quickly dug into the soft tissues there and dragged his index claws through the nerves and muscles there left and right respectively. It was common to remove the vocal chords first, but out here in the wilderness, it was refreshing to hear the man scream. Bilbo grabbed the filthy maggot by his hair, long and matted as it was and started dragging him towards his second escapee, who honestly could not have gotten far – and right he was. He found the second sentry he had killed right where he had left him, whimpering in pain, and pissing himself. Tall people were so disgusting when they died.

 

Bilbo looked down at himself and frowned – his clothing was spattered with blood. Someone, he did not care who, but someone would be laden with the responsibility of getting him something nice to wear – this just would not do. He felt absolutely rugged, and he was a Baggins this time around and Bagginses did not feel rugged. He dragged the two twisting men back to camp where Yarasha had already piled the rest of them beside the fire. Togrin, the heavy bastard, was on top. Yarasha smiled when she saw her brother and their quarry. Nine out of nine accounted for.  
“I might have to beg a wardrobe change from you, sister dearest.” Bilbo said with a put upon sigh. Peals of female laughter produced a disturbing overlay for the pained groans coming from the pile of humans.  
“Food first, brother dearest, wardrobe later.” Bilbo could not argue with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize: my psyche hasn't been all there and with my term paper and bachelor deadlines closing in I've curled in to a ball of angst and done nothing. Seen nothing. Eaten nothing. So. So. Sorry.
> 
> So this is my first fight/kill scene since Bilbo fucked over Azog the defiler and I'm kind of pleased. I have very limited experience with writing these kinds of things, so please, any input is highly valued.
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed this - I know I loved writing it.


	8. The return of the hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hunters return to camp, the dwarves discuss death, and Gandalf is a wily old man with a stick.

The silence around the camp was uncomfortable, most of them had just been sitting there for a good while. Thorin gazed stoically in the direction Bilbo and Yarasha in lieu of keeping watch, and nobody wanted to disturb him. Gandalf was puffing at his pipe with seemingly no care in the world while the rest of the company were nattering on betwixt themselves, very narrowly skirting the real issue they wanted to talk about.  
“… did we just _send_ off Bilbo to _eat_ someone?” it was a timid question from Ori, who’s words were a bit muffled because he was chewing at the edges of his fingerless gloves. Trust the youngest one to be the one to bring it up first. Dori huffed in a motherly way and pulled the arm of his youngest brother away from his mouth – Ori always chewed his gloves or sleeves when he was nervous.  
“Yeah… we kinda did.” Fili said, leaning back towards his brother, who was brushing out his hair and re-braiding the braids. Travel was hard on the golden tresses and after only a few days, they ended up looking more like a haystack than actual hair.  
“His sister did say they were bandits.” Kili said, coaxing a particularly vicious knot out of his brother’s hair. Fili winced – he had a sensitive scalp.  
“Does that make it all-right?” Ori asked. The rest of the dwarves looked down or away: it was a hard question to answer.  
“Well-” Dori puffed himself up in a mother hen sort of way and was prepared to deliver a verbose non-answer but Nori thumped his older brother on the back of the head and got in ahead of the older dwarf.  
  
“It ain’t that black and white kid, ya just gotta think which of them you’d want watching yer back. D’ja want Bilbo or the bandits coverin’ ya when the slag spills onto the forge floor?” Nori, who had a shadier past than the rest of the dwarves in the company, had made a few choices like this before. Most of them turned out all right. A jagged scar that travelled from Nori’s left shoulder to the middle of his back was the remnant of a bad choice, but he had a gut feeling about Bilbo.  
“Bilbo.” Was the decisive answer from Ori.  
“I’ve gotta agree with the young’in.” Dwalin’s gruff voice cut in, with an approving noise from Balin.  
“If we’d encountered those bandits on our way we would have probably had to fight them anyway, this served two purposes, avoided a fight and fed a valued member of the company as well as gave Bilbo something to do with his sister. We all know the importance of family.” Dwalin was checking off his arguments by extending his thick fingers. Ori was watching enraptured – it was more than Dwalin usually spoke.  
  
“He hasn’t been a threat to us.” Gloin concluded with a satisfied nod.  
“Plus, he makes good tea!” Bofur chimed in with a happy grin. Dwalin rolled his eyes at the simple thing that had Bofur eating out of the palm of Bilbo’s hand. The younger dwarf had a great fondness for anything that could be steeped in boiling water to make a good drink.  
“And his knowledge of spices has made this trip bearable food-wise.” Bombur slipped in. He patted his belly contently.  Not a single soul was surprised at the rotund dwarf’s declaration. Bofur and Bifur just smiled at their brother – he never changed.  
  
It looked like more dwarves wanted to add their two cents to the conversation, but they were interrupted by Beorn, in his large bear form, thundering towards their camp with large baskets of what they hoped to be supplies strapped across his back. That was quite quick.  
“Thank you for your speedy return, friend.” Gandalf greeted the shape, shifter with a beatific smile and wide-open arms. Beorn grunted.  
“Apparently my… my – Yarasha… had talked to my animal friends after I left to greet you the first time in anticipation of someone needing supplies.” The big shifter did not look happy at all, and Gandalf could partly understand him, it must feel very humbling to be the master of an entire territory, and then have something that reached ones knees have the advantage. It was probably the same conflicted feelings between Bilbo and the warriors of their group – it could not have been easy accepting that the little one had defeated Azog. But like Dwalin and the rest of them, Gandalf suspected that Beorn really cared for Yarasha as much as they cared for Bilbo, it was just grumbling for the sake of grumbling – and the acknowledgement of the little seed of doubt that did naturally come when having someone who ate sentient creatures to live – properly that is.  
  
Beorn dropped the two baskets on the ground and called out to Thorin to come and inspect the goods.  
“You can always come over and inspect the goods.” Beorn sneered at the dwarven king. It was not the most respectful way of doing it, but it did yield results – Thorin rose from his contemplative perch and Royal Scowl number two settled across his brow. Bilbo and Gandalf had a good laugh over some grilled rats one night – they had classified all the different ways their resident king could scowl and what they meant. Number two was the one where he was really itching to cleave something in two but common sense kept the urge in check, barely.  
“Thank you, Beorn.” Thorin bit out through clenched teeth, after a solid prod to the back by Gandalf’s staff. Many people believed that Gandalf hung on to his staff so tightly because it channeled his magic, but that was only part of it – it also allowed him to channel his inner old man and use it on hungry Morgothians and sour Kings, as the situation would have it.

The king did inspect the supplies closely, perhaps even too close, as Beorn’s face started to scrunch up into an insulted expression. He could really pull it off with that beard. Gandalf used his trusted staff once more – a light tap to the back of Thorin’s right calf set the king straight. Being a millennia old Maiar had its advantages – people respected you no matter what you did. Everything that did not fit the norm was chalked up to age, and if there was one thing Gandalf had aplenty, it was age. Being cast as a doddering old fool had more advantages than expected – Kings and commoners alike could easily forget what magicks Gandalf was capable of in the face of his drooped eyelids, wrinkled skin and parchment fingers. 

“What are the basins for?” Amongst the food, the bag of clothes and other assorted knick-knacks one would want for travel Beorn had schlepped with him two shallow stone basins of crude quality. It made the craftsman in Thorin recoil in horror, seeing the uneven edges and the child-like attempts at decoration – by Mahal if this wasn’t as close to desecrated as stone could get, but in the face of the old man and his spark-stick Thorin wisely kept his mouth shut. Being humbled by a Maiar and ancient magic had a ring to it that could carry a tale, being prodded by an old man and his stick for being a bit uppity (as was his right as King, damn-it) was more humiliating. The skin-changer seemed to share the sentiment judging by his sidelong glances at Gandalf’s staff – the wily old thing had a swish and flick movement in his wrists that really made that staff sting.

“The basins are for Yarasha and the other one. Their feet need tending to.” Beorn answered, finally.  
“The other one?” Thorin ground out, his dwarven make was being tested as his teeth were trying to grind themselves to bone meal. It was just a Bunny, and to have someone that saved Thorin’s life disrespected to such a degree was rubbing the dwarven King’s pride the wrong way.    
“The one you call Bilbo” Beorn conceded reluctantly “‘Asha has informed me, on several occasions, that feet are a big part of their culture and that caring for them after a hunt is a communal thing; with _Bilbo_ here I thought it would be nice for her to partake in the grooming alongside someone for once.” Thorin did not really know what to answer so he gave a non-committal grunt and mulled the information over – it was a new piece of the puzzle, and ever since Thorin saw a short, doe-eyed, curly headed creature behind a green door he had been longing to complete it. Especially since new pieces kept falling down unrepentantly.

While the camp settled down, all of them for once, as Beorn had graciously offered to stand watch, a sharp bark of laughter could be heard in the distance from the direction Bilbo and Yarasha had headed only hours before. Beorn stopped and looked at the relaxing dwarves and the amused wizard.  
“It’s them, they are back.” The dwarves looked in the direction the laughter had come from, but even with their dark-seeing eyes, the distance was too far. Gandalf putted contentedly on his pipe, as both Thorin and Beorn had settled down.  
“How far out?” Dwalin asked the skin-changer.  
“Not far, not at their speeds.” Beorn said, his eyes fixed on a point in the dark distance.  
“Are they really that fast?” Ori asked, wringing his fingers. Dori moved to pull his curious younger brother away but Nori nipped at the hem of his coat with his fingers and stopped him – this was good information.  
“Faster, they are well fed by the sound of it, this is a leisurely pace” The company fell silent – they one by one realized how starving Bilbo must have been when he kept lagging behind. Dwalin’s respect for the little creature rose considerably – few would have suffered starvation with a food source nearby, and it did trouble the burly dwarf to think of himself as a food source. Bombur unconsciously put down the drumstick he had been eating and Thorin looked off into the distance.

Beorn’s words were soon proven correct as the two siblings almost danced their way towards camp, finally within the sights of the dwarves, even with the darkness covering the earth like a blanket. Thorin watched how they circled around each other, both so full of energy and spirit, as they rapidly closed in on the light cast by the large campfire. The dwarves looked on silently as the two stepped into the warm glow of their circle – both little ones looked plumped up, happy and so very healthy. Bilbo was very different from the hobbit that had left them – the loose clothing he had worn suddenly made sense as they seemed to be filled out a bit nicer now. It was astonishing – one meal should not be the cause of such a change, ordinarily, but then the situation, and the hobbits, were anything but ordinary. The bloodstained clothes were not nearly enough to make a dent in the healthy, hale appearances of the two short creatures. It was a chilling contrast, but the company, and Gandalf, found that they did not begrudge Bilbo this one bit.

“Greetings, everyone!” Bilbo said, as the firelight bounced off his coppery curls. He opened his mouth to say something else but he was interrupted by a loud, joyous shriek from his sister.  
“Beorn-!” She cried as she, in the blink of an eye, was jumping into the arms of the large shifter. “You brought the _Jutgurratish_!” her voice descended into a low growl on the last word but her demeanor was absolutely, astonishingly pleased. The Morgothian kissed the large shifter on a rugged cheek before jumping out of his arms with the grace of a cat. Yarasha ran over to the supplies and fished out the two rugged stone basins from the pile of things she had requested be brought to the dwarves. The small woman easily handled the bulky things as she moved them over to where Bilbo was standing. He had a misty eyed, wistful look in his eyes. Yarasha straightened up and squared her shoulders while the rest of the camp looked on in fascination. She formally bowed to Bilbo and looked at him with a great smile on her little face.  
“Ukhall kulknej waukh, broavher?” By the intonation alone, Gandalf and some of the lingual dwarves pegged the guttural stream of words as a question.  
“Yeuk, ukiukaver, kulknej ukhall.” Bilbo’s guttural rumble had a deeper quality to it than his sister’s but he looked as if Yule and Durin’s Day had come early and at once, even with the quick acknowledging glance he sent towards the rest of the camp, so the dwarves did not comment on what looked like a formal exchange.

During their little display, Beorn had walked over to the supply pile and fished out a large skin of water, a pack of herbs and a little brown satchel, the last of which he held with utmost reverence. He walked over to Yarasha and handed her the items, and the look she gave him, those sparkling eyes and that utterly devout smile, was all the tanks he needed. Bilbo and Yarasha placed the two basins together; long side by long side. They were shallow but broad with one edge on the short sides broader than the rest and the broad edges were across from each other. Yarasha gracefully handed her brother the small pouch and while she poured the lukewarm water from the large skin in equal amounts into the basins and the herbs in with it, Bilbo carefully emptied the satchel. It was revealed to contain a simple mithril comb, something any dwarf worth their salt could spot three leagues away, as well as a perfectly cut pumice stone and a half full flask of red liquid. The company watched on, entranced. Even Gandalf was watching with rapt attention. Beorn had a pleased look on his face and he went back to circling the camp, keeping watch.

Bilbo and Yarasha clasped their hands over the two basins, with the tools at the ready and the herb-filled water smelling sweetly, and chanted.  
_  
Our feeav kigija carrausan uuk_

_Our feeav kigija udahok uuk_

_Our feeav kigija mabaj uuk_

_Our feeav kigija carrusan uuk votar_

They both shed their outer layers of clothing after the rhythmic words, thus most of the blood spatter, and stepped into a basin each. They sat down on the fat ledges and reached over and begun to wash each other’s feet while the dwarves looked on with cultural incomprehension. Ori looked like he was brimming with questions but refrained from asking them; Dori looked at the baths and thought that a nice soak for tired feet would be welcome, while Nori was indifferent. Bofur looked puzzled; Bombur let the Morgothians be Morgothians and went back to his drumstick, while Bifur scratched his beard. Fili and Kili had the same look in their eyes as Ori, but a thunderous glare from Thorin quieted them, as they had nowhere near the self-restraint that Ori possessed when they were curious. Balin looked mildly intrigued while Dwalin found an axe to sharpen. The two little creatures, either ignoring or oblivious to the attention they were receiving, continued caring for each other’s feet, applying the comb and the pumice stone while they sorted out their feet.

After a good while of rubbing and scrubbing, during which time the rest of the company had all gone back to their own activities, the two Hobbits gracefully lifted their feet out of the basins. The now clean feet were pink and covered in wet, freshly combed hair. They took each other’s basin and tipped it to the side, pouring out the water. The sound of sloshing water drew some attention but the others had decided to leave well enough alone. Dwarves especially understood the importance of rituals, and it all looked like one big bundle of a ritual to them, so they employed a hands-off policy for the time being. The stone basins were turned over and now served as benches; they sat down and stretched out a foot each to rest in the others lap. The vial of red liquid was uncorked and smeared into each foot, rubbed deeply into the skin, before they switched feet and repeated the process. Finally, they stood up, smiled at one another, and smiled brightly before turning towards the rest of the company.

“Sorry for just ignoring you, but the washing of feet is a tradition amongst our people when returning after excursions.” _After a hunt_ went unspoken, but Bilbo heard his sister nonetheless. Yarasha’s voice roused the attention of the camp but most of the dwarves either smiled or nodded, only Thorin, who had not taken his eyes of Bilbo since he came back, and Dwalin, who was running quickly running out of care, differed.  
“Was the food to your liking?” She continued, as if she had not referred to the decimation of a bandit camp as a simple _excursion_.  
“Excellent!” Came the rowdy reply from Bombur while several others raised their travel mugs in agreement while Bofur tipped his hat.  
“Good!” Yarasha chirped. “My brother and I need a change of clothes, so we’ll be right back, ok?” Bilbo, who was still overly happy about having participated in the customary foot washing with actual family after so long, just smiled at the company before trekking after his sister.

A few minutes later, after the two siblings had rooted around in the supply pile for the spare changes of clothes, the dwarves, much to their amusement, heard an indignant cry:  
  
“What do you mean Beorn packed only dresses!?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Hello. Sorry for the wait. I love you! ... does that help?
> 
> Blackspeech  
> Jutguratish = waterstonecontainer  
> “ukhall kulknej waukh broavher?” Shall we wash, brother?  
> “yeuk, ukiukaver, kulknej ukhall.” Yes, sister, we shall.  
> Used this translator because the author is lazy, so very, very lazy. http://lingojam.com/BlackSpeechTranslator  
> Also: a dictionary because dictionaries are cool.  
> http://www.angelfire.com/ia/orcishnations/englishorcish.html 
> 
> “Our feet that carry us  
> Our feet that guide us  
> Our feet that hold us  
> Our feet that carry us home”


	9. That funny little interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author has a sprained wrist and couldn't deal with this so she made a funny interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo/Yarasha age: 4,735  
> Shires age = Rivendell – 50 = 4,635  
> http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Timeline_of_Arda  
> Also: if you notice any seating discrepancies I’m just going to defend myself with the fact that the dwarves are secretly ninjutsu specialists and they shunshin all over the fucking place to suit my plot needs, all right?

“Oh bother, this is just going to be awful.” Bilbo tottered out from behind the bushes where he and Yarasha had gone to change and he drew the attention of the entire rest of the camp. His plump form was stuffed into a dress that did many good things for his curves, if the company were to be honest, but none of them dared to voice it, as Bilbo looked severely disgruntled. Bilbo wore a light-brown undershirt with billowy arms, which was topped with a darker brown apron dress with a black leather waist cincher and a cream petticoat. Yarasha followed her brother out from behind the bush decked out in a similar garb, with blue and green tones, her face twisted up in a smirk.  
“You look good, brother dearest.” The restrained laughter was clear.  
“Do I have to wear this belt-thing?” Bilbo’s whine was so close in tone to the way he’d moaned about everything at the start of the journey that it drew snorts from a few of the Dwarves.  
“Now, brother, you may be dressed in unfamiliar clothing but this is what I had in your size, it’s not every day ones brother drags himself, a gaggle of dwarves and a Maiar through the doors and expects to be clothed and fed. Deal with it.” The last part had hidden steel in it, and Bilbo looked at Yarasha from under his eyelashes and smiled.  
“I am grateful, sister, but I have not worn a dress in centuries. It’s awkward.” Bilbo tugged at his skirts and secretly enjoyed the airy feeling.  
“Yes, yes, I am fully aware, but suck it up, brother mine, it’s either that or naked. No proper Hobbit would be seen in those ghastly rags you came along in.” The siblings smiled at the shared joke.  
“So… why would you be wearing a dress, Bilbo?” Gandalf said, still puffing on that infernal pipe. Yarasha flounced over to the campfire and sat down on a log Beorn had, conveniently, provided.  
“Clothes do not make the person, and it took us years to really figure out how the rest of you segregated yourselves based on dress code, people just confused us, and then we just carried on not really bothering.” Yarasha reached over and grabbed some food Bombur had prepared, despite having just hunted, and carried on talking. “We look alike enough gender wise to where it doesn’t really matter. Before Bilbo was Balbo he was Rosabelle, and before that, he was Violette. I hate the pronouns in common, we do not have genders in our tongue beyond the description of our carriers, and our givers, our mothers and fathers if you will, and your entire societies just confused us, which is why we built the Shire and stayed there.” The entire company was enraptured by Yarasha’s explanation of things and by the time she had, finished Bilbo had come over to the fire as well, and was sitting right beside his sister.  
“Cross your legs, dear” Yarasha said offhandedly as Bilbo was about to settle into a comfortable sprawl.  
“And this is why I like pants.” Bilbo said with a grumble.  
“Ehm, Master Boggins.” Because it was still only a quarter of a chance Kili would remember the right vowels in his name, bless his pointy little head. “Why aren’t you more upset about wearing a dress?”  
“I’ve worn them before, I’ve just gotten used to pants. This is…” Bilbo paused for a second to collect his thoughts. “This is too breezy.” The Morgothian finally settled on, with a pondering glance upwards. If, and only if, Thorin looked straight at the hobbit with a burning gaze while making a slashing motion towards his devilish nephew Bilbo didn’t mention it, because Thorin would never admit it anyhow. “That and travelling in dresses is just awful, they flounce every which way and catch on everything.” Yarasha nodded sagely beside him, as if Bilbo had imparted the truth of the universe. “I discovered that hassle the first couple of times I travelled to Bree, when that old place finally started becoming more than a usual stop-site for caravans.”  
“But that’s not that long ago!” Exclaimed Ori, who knew a fair bit about history from both sides of the Misty Mountains.  
“It’s closing up on half a millennia now, isn’t it?” Bilbo pondered. “At least if you count the first attempt that were razed by rot-meat…” Bilbo muttered, almost as if to himself.  
“He means orcs.” Yarasha said offhandedly as she leaned over to get a flask of mead Beorn had put down beside her. “Thanks, sweetie.” She said to the hulking shape-shifter, who preened.  
“When did you start wearing dresses?” Ori asked again, Dori tried to hold his mouth shut, but much like his brother Nori, Ori could be a slippery whip of a dwarf when he wanted to. Dori ceased his attempt and sulked visibly.  
“I can’t remember the year exactly. When you hit the two millennia mark things start getting a bit fuzzy, especially things that happened, I’m not even sure how old I am. Rivendell was founded some time during the Second Age, yes?”  
“1697.” Yarasha said before she took a swig from her flask. Bilbo heaved a heavy sigh and buried his face in his hands.  
“Good graces, we’re getting old, aren’t we?” he spoke into his hands. Yarasha shifted the mead flask from one hand to the other in preparation, before she punched her brother square off his perch.  
“Speak for yourself.” She said primly as she crossed her ankles daintily. Bilbo grumbled something in their language, which sounded decidedly unflattering, as he got up, brushed off his skirts, and sat back down. The Dwarves watched on with parts trepidation, parts glee while Gandalf was choking on his smoke-rings.  
“But if you’re so old,” Ori started gently, quailing under a sharp look from Yarasha “you must have seen so many things!” the young dwarf finished quickly while unconsciously leaning towards Dwalin, who was sitting beside him, which made Dori, who was on the other side, level a look that promised much pain and suffering at the tattooed dwarf. Dwalin feigned obliviousness to the entire situation and found solace in some jerky.  
“What part about “we built the shire and stayed there” didn’t you get? Learning to not eat people isn’t a cake walk, you know.” Yarasha sniffed. Bilbo played with the hem of his dress and edged away from his sister, having recently been re-acquainted with her right hook. Ori huddled back into his knit-ware.  
“Beg your pardon, miss, how, exactly, did your race learn how to “not eat people” as you put it.” Balin, ever the respectful dwarf, said, with a mildly curious tone. His hands were folded into his sleeves and he leaned forward, eagerly awaiting response.  
“Trial and error.” She answered, after taking a huge gulp from the flask. Her tone did not beg any questions, and everyone present realized, to some degree, what those errors entailed. An oppressive silence filled the camp Most of the dwarves found solace in much the same way Dwalin did when faced with Dori’s displeasure – an intense and unwavering focus on whatever they were eating or drinking. Dwalin, the inspiration for the entire coping mechanism, was desperately looking for more jerky in the pack propped up against the log he shared with his royal highness on one side, Ori and, regrettably, Dori on the other. Crickets were being wildly entertaining with the song of their people. 

“Right, that’s all we have for today, good evening.” Bilbo’s nervous tenor broke the silence; his voice had pitched up a bit, making it an uncomfortable disturbance. He quickly grasped his sister’s free hand and hauled her to her feet, pausing only slightly so she could get her feet on the ground, proper, before hauling his, now squawking, sibling away from the campfire. They didn’t get far, however, as a slow rumbling voice rolled over the company:  
“You don’t have to leave, or hide, Bilbo.” It was Thorin; he was sitting across the camp with Dwalin at his side. “We know what you are.” Bilbo stumbled slightly – did Thorin just say something nice and inoffensive that could not be taken wrongly at all? The Morgothian looked around the camp, studying each face in detail.  
“I think Mahal has just blessed us.” Kili whispered sagely. The entire camp turned to look at the serene face of the younger dwarf with a clear amount of suspicion. “Uncle finally managed to say something without discombobulating someone into anger.”  
“I don’t think that means what you think it means.” Fili interjected. Kili faced his brother, face alight with rightful indignation.  
“It does mean what I think it means, just ask Balin!” Kili retorted vehemently. Said sage dwarf realized that intently focusing on his meal would not get him out of this argument, so he serenely folded his hands before scooting away, slowly.  
With a war cry worthy of the most battle hardened dwarven chief, Kili set upon his older brother like a warg possessed. Fili, in his infinite wisdom, made a high-pitched noise that he would later forbid anyone from naming before sprinting out of reach. At this point it Yarasha started tugging at Bilbo – this was gearing up to be something she did not want her or her brother involved in, at all.


	10. Getting closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirkwood is looming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look. I'm not dead! I hope you can forgive me for taking so much time DX

Bilbo and everyone else spent the next morning patching up Fili, who was impressively bruised and battered after Kili, the quick little shit, had gotten a hold of him. Thorin opted out of most of the patching, as mending steel and mending skin were two completely different things, but he took his part by reaming Kili out like a Dwarven Plate Commander, which made Kili clench up so hard Bilbo could have sworn he heard the young dwarf’s butthole squeak.

They had had packed up all of their things, and Yarasha had sent Beorn home for more healing salves, as they had expended a small portion of it to get Fili ambulatory again. Kili might be small, but he sure packed a punch. Thorin had made the decision of letting Kili keep the black eye, however, as a reminder not to antagonize his younger brother.

Beorn, after having run home to get some healing salve, surveyed the madness that was a gaggle of dwarves, an ornery wizard, and two Morgothians and decided that silence, was for once, the better part of valor. Yarasha was still a bit prickly after the blood sucking comment, despite the hugs that had been doled out, so he was threading on eggshells on a metaphorical level, as actually stepping on eggshells was something he never noticed.

“Allright everyone! We’re packed and ready to go!” Bilbo called out, which cut through the din of the camp.

“So soon, brother?” Yarasha asked with a small pout.

“I’ll come back and visit, sister. Don’t you worry!” He promised with a grin as he twirled around, getting everyone packed up and stuffed the last little bits and pieces of the camp into the packs that had room.

His energy levels were up a little past the point of hyperactivity, due to the little hunting trip, so both he and Yarasha had spent the night catching up while the others slept under Beorn’s watch.

“Drepa ukilenav!” She said as a parting shot, before taking an impossible leap, summersaulting in the air, and landing, feet first, on Beorn’s shoulders.

“Drepa ukilenav, sister!” Bilbo said as he got the gang going. The little Morgothian walked backwards for a good while, just waving and communicating with his sister through large gestures, some of which seemed awfully rude. The Dwarves glanced over at the interaction sporadically but their focus was ahead, they were not saying goodbye to family, so they had to watch the road ahead so their littlest companion could say his goodbyes in relative peace.

When Yarasha and Beorn was out of sight and they had walked for a good two hours, the looming darkness of Mirkwood started rising on the horizon in a foreboding barrier against the light of the day. The closer they got, the gnarlier the trees seemed to get, and for some reason, Bilbo became more relaxed, but he was still exuding energy. Balin, the curious cat, slid up to Bilbo in a silent move that would have made a Morgothian proud.

“So, Bilbo, what did you say to your sister right before we left?” The old dwarf was back in complete scholar mode. Ori, the little darling, was buzzing around the two like a fly, trying to catch parts of the conversation.

“Kill silent.” Bilbo answered with an embarrassed shrug. He had not really used that greeting in several hundred years, but it came so natural to him when Yarasha had said it to him, with that determined look on her face, that he did not really think about it.

“Ah.” Balin said with an air of finality as he folded his hands into his robes.

“What?” That was a weird conversational ending, and Bilbo suddenly felt self-conscious.

“We sometimes say “Tan gamut warg ai-menu” which means ‘may a good death be upon you’.” The old dwarf chuckled to himself. “We have such different philosophies.” He mused in that low timber of his “But we get along so well…” the wise one trailed off.

The two carried on in a contemplative silence as the faint pen-scratches of Ori soothed their ears. The young dwarf had taken to recording almost anything that happened in a ratty notebook he carried on the inside of his tunic. It was leather bound and kind of thick.

They carried on, while Ori flitted over to the dwarven princes and scribbled down something in their vicinity. Bilbo enjoyed watching the dwarves and their little quirks. Fili and Kili were still squabbling, as brothers do. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were having an animated conversation in Khuzdul, and Bilbo wished dearly that he knew enough to drop some eaves, as the three cousins could be highly amusing. Dwalin was keeping a stoic conversation with Thorin, both of them constructing elaborate sentences by eyebrow wiggles and grunts alone, Bilbo took note that three consecutive eyebrow raises and a snort from Dwalin caused Thorin to give an amused snort. Balin had moved around in the caravan and was puffing on a pipe as he walked, alongside the weedy wizard, who was puffing on a pipe of his own, discussing the best thing to stuff in their pipe bowls. Dori was trying to catch Ori, as the young dwarf was flitting from group to group, quill scratching and ink staining his hands. Nori was running interference on Ori’s behalf and earned himself a good number of swipes from Dori.

Watching them all made something distinctly warm swell in Bilbo’s chest. They were all so hopeful, and they were all so real. It was interesting to the long-lived creature how he could interact with these beings on the same level, as if there was not several millennia in age difference between them. He almost felt refreshed, as if he was finally learning something new after a period in a mental quagmire. Hiding away in the Shire had done wonders for learning self-control, as temptation was rarely introduced, but he finally felt like he was alive again, learning, breathing, feeling, and that was something the Shire quelled quite quietly in its soft lull of food and drink.

Another hour on the road and they had started the winding stumble that signalized old tree-roots. The tall trees were towering into the sky, their branches thick, black, and foreboding. Bilbo kind of felt like he was sliding into something comfortable as he started touching the trees, it was as if the darkness within the forest itself was responding. The group had settled down for a quick rest at the ragged edges of Mirkwood, gathering strength before they used the afternoon light as best they could.

“Bilbo.” The raspy voice of Thorin startled the Morgothian, as Bilbo had been too busy taking in the atmosphere that exuded from the forest as he flitted at the edges of the camp.

“Hm?” He turned around, his eyes staring at something far away.

“Are you ok?” The king frowned as he caught the glazed look the Morgothian had about him.

“It’s dark in here.” Bilbo elaborated, somewhat unsuccessfully. There were words lodged in his throat, but actually articulating them was beyond him. The forest was heady.

“It’s the stench of the witch king.” Thorin commented. Bilbo seemed to flinch as Thorin said that, and the King’s gaze shifted towards curiosity.

“I feel at home here.” Bilbo said in a soft voice. “I’m really not like you.” He pulled away from Thorin, who quickly wrapped a hand around Bilbo’s wrist and held him in place. The Morgothian appreciated the strength the dwarf displayed, despite knowing he could get out of the hold easily.

“You’re one of us.” Thorin grunted. “You saved me.” Was the resounding conclusion to his presented thesis.

“I feel at home here.” Bilbo said again, as if repeating the words would somehow bring home the novels of words that was bubbling in his chest. “You guys feel your skin crawl, even Gandalf seems a bit disturbed…, and here I am, just…” Bilbo trailed off again and tried to wander off but Thorin pulled as Bilbo was taking a step and the tiny Morgothian ended up colliding against a broad, fur clad chest.

“It just makes you better to guide us.” Thorin concluded as he held the tiny creature in his larger arms. The King was fully aware that Bilbo could easily get out of his hold, and was almost surprised that the smaller being stayed put, cheek against his chest.

“I feel more like a Morgothian than I have in centuries.” Bilbo whispered into the fur. “I like it, but it feels a bit dangerous.”

“You hunted.” Thorin commented. He had given a lot of thought to Bilbo’s previous hunt, and a good amount of eyebrow waggling between himself and Dwalin had helped cement his views: Bilbo was worth it, those bandits were not.

“Which isn’t really socially acceptable.” Bilbo chuckled wetly.

“We accepted that you hunted.” Thorin amended. The king often wished that he could charge at words with a sword and shield in his hands, and chop them into the meaning he wanted to present, or forge them into the perfect little jewelry pieces his master had taught him as a child in Erebor. Presenting someone with a mithril piece forged with the emotion he held for the person was easier than articulating the things that were rattling around in Thorin’s chest.

“They were living things, with families…” Bilbo did not really feel that emotional about the actual hunting, but for some reason, the reactions of his dwarves was something he feared greatly.

“Much like the calves we tear away from their mothers when we make a feast.” Thorin rationalized. He felt a bit embarrassed that he could articulate the slaughter of animals better than his very own emotions.

“I guess meat is meat…” Bilbo summed up the awkward that was Thorin in a conversation.

“Yes. That.” Somehow, the King just had to prove to Bilbo that he needed to send for his lingual texts when they finally reached Erebor.

“You’re awful at words, but good at encouragements.” Bilbo smiled up at the dwarven king, the worry had been swept aside for a more subdued joy “It’s an interesting combination.” Thorin just hummed, because words were overrated anyway. The sweet sparkle in Bilbo’s eyes made it hard to move his tongue anyway, so why bother.

Neither of the two had noticed the entire camp still, as everyone from the youngest scribe to the gnarliest wizard stopped and stared at the sight of the king of all Dwarves held what went bump in the night in a gentle embrace, soft words getting lost in the stale winds emanating from Mirkwood. Even the two brothers were afraid of breathing as it might make their surly uncle move away from the softened dwarf they saw before them. They finally saw the dwarf their mother had so fondly described from her childhood, and it amazed them. He had always been a fatherly figure in their lives, but this was a softness, a shine, that neither of the two had witnessed, even as he had comforted them through their longest days.

No one in the company could deny what they were seeing, and they did not want to.


End file.
